Sparks
by soaring-smiles
Summary: "I know your name and that you think my house is brilliant," he says, "and the other stuff we can work out as we go." He's more than a little strange and she's a little lost. Maybe this is exactly what they need. [11/Rose AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Huzzah for a multi-chaptered fic, eh? Anyway, this is the first in the Sparks 'verse, and yes, it is (another) AU 11/Rose. Do hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

Rose reckons this job doesn't sound half bad.

At least, not like Henrik's was. The paper is fluttering in her hands, inky words blurred from the rain. That's okay; she's already memorized it, pored over it like it was gonna save her life, curled up on her bed while her mum slammed cupboards and cursed out Harold.

Lucky she found it. Bit strange, really, it taped to the lamppost on the very evening she'd lost her job at the shop. She looks down at it again, just to make sure.

_Assistant needed, _says the scrawled, photocopied handwriting, _for inventor/scientist. No need for previous knowledge and/or experience. Must be cheery and __**follow instructions.**__ Rudimentary cooking skills preferred._

_Reply Doc. John Smith at 11 Trenzalore St. (the blue one)_

There wasn't anything about wages, but Rose isn't sure it matters at this point. She's here, only pair of classy flats she owns, borrowed skirt and old buttoned shirt that she hitched up and tied in a knot for naughty-school-girl at Shireen's Halloween party last year.

She's going for professional.

She's not sure it's working.

What would an assistant need to_ do?_ File stuff? Paperwork? Help with machines and things? She's not really sure about the cooking part, though. She'll be out of there like a shot if she's a housekeeper or something.

Her mum reckons its a code for _'sex slave'_ but that's doubtful. Mickey wasn't happy neither, but she told him exactly where to go. If it does turn out like that, she can handle it. Big girl now. Nineteen is a bit too old to be mollycoddled by both her boyfriend _and_ her mum.

Wandering down the posh-looking street, she passes what looks like old abandoned houses. They're all beautiful, elegantly made limestone and marble, and she sighs in envy. Powell Estate isn't big on graceful.

Nobody's around, she notes. Just the clouds and the concrete and twining iron fences. Her breath and her shoes, her shiver when she pauses at number 11. It's a bit empty, Trenzalore Street. Just a bit lonely.

Doctor Smith's house looks almost the same as the others, but she can see little hints this one is occupied. The wilted flowers hanging on the windowsill up above (roses, and she snorts) and the welcome mat that's scuffed beyond recognition.

It also is very, _very_ blue. The kind of vivid blue that roots itself in her vision, satisfying to look at, attention-grabbing. Painted all over, too, although it looks as if it could use a touch-up in some places.

Now that's one thing she won't be doing, not for a thousand pounds.

Tucking back a strand of her blonde-dyed hair, she pulls up her shoulders to make herself look taller. Only sparing a glance at the thunder rumbling above her, she knocks three times, confidently, almost hurting her fingers on the lacquered navy wood.

She can do this. She'd put Jimmy Stones in hospital just before her nineteenth, a couple of months ago. The git had the nerve to try and force himself on her. At first it'd been scary, but Shireen and her's compulsory self-defense classes had kicked in. Never again would Rose doubt her friend.

A job interview's a piece of cake, compared to that, right?

(then again, her right hook is really, _really _good)

The door bursts open and she jumps, an embarrassing yelp nearly making its way out of her mouth before she catches herself on the steps. The man facing her is wearing a strange pair of metal goggles on his face, and she can see oil on his cheek. He's thin and lanky, with a tweed blazer, suspenders and…a bow tie?

"Hello!" he says exuberantly, offering her a hand. She takes it hesitantly, trying out a small smile. "I'm the Doctor. Are you here for a job?"

He lifts the goggles off his face, revealing an angular face; pointed chin and sharp cheekbones. Brown hair flops messily over his forehead, a pair of bright green eyes underneath.

"Um," she manages. "Yeah. I'm Rose. Rose Tyler."

He grins. "Rose? That's a lovely name, isn't it? I always liked flowers, really. Well,_ I_ liked them but they didn't like me." He frowns. "Had a bit of a problem with the concept of fertilizer."

He's posh, then. Not royalty or anything, but really, she should have guessed when she saw the house.

"Oh." She deliberates, and then decides. She's here now, isn't she? Might as well try, even if he looks like a rich nutter. "Can I come in?"

He stares at her for a moment and then his eyes widen. "What? Oh, oh _yes_. Right. Job." He gestures her in and shuts the door, wind cutting out.

He lopes down the hallway, and she follows him hurriedly, mouth opening as they just keep _going_. It's huge! Rooms everywhere, lit up and dark, locked ones and ones flung wide open. She catches sight of a pool, and a library-in the same place, bedrooms, kitchen(s), things she doesn't have a name for.

"How did you…" she begins and then laughs at herself. "This is brilliant!"

Doctor Smith glances back at her with a smile. "I know! She's bigger on the inside-that's what I tell everybody. The salesmen don't really like it though. They keep running away." His brow lowers. "And I really_did_ want that retracting knife. It would have been lovely for the central calibrator…"

The soft green wallpaper and worn wooden floor gives way to a large circular room, with a glass floor and machinery whirring underneath. A sort of console is in the middle, with things hanging off it and wires spiraling out the sides, compartments and levers and a glowing tube reaching up to the high arched ceiling. The walls are more metal than paint, glowing with gold and green and slight tinges of blue.

_"God,_" she breathes, in awe. All the jitters about her interview fly right out the window. This is…this is indescribable. Stunning.

Doctor Smith stands back and takes in her reaction happily, tugging at the bow-tie around his neck absently. She'd peg him at thirty-ish, maybe a bit more by his eyes. They seem old. But then some people have that; seen too much for their age and suddenly they could pass for decades older.

He'a sort of cute, in a mad-puppy way.

"Well. Would you like to get started?" he asks casually, arms hanging loosely by his sides.

She splutters, tearing her gaze from the console-thing reluctantly. "What? No interview or anything? What about a CV? Or…or wages and…and a schedule? You don't know a thing about me!" she protests.

He looks at her blankly, and then considers her, running his gaze down her body in a way that feels like study, not checking out. She shifts uncomfortably, hoping he hasn't seen something he doesn't like. But then, she's not got a clue what he's looking for.

"I know your name and that you think my house is brilliant," he says eventually. "And the other stuff we can work out as we go. Domestics, all that lovely boring jazz." He nods decisively. "Happy?"

"But-"

Suddenly the mischievous look fades to a serious one. "I don't tend to ask twice, you know," he says quietly. "This is it."

Rose Tyler makes up her mind, and quickly at that.

"Where do I put my coat?" she asks, and his smile could rival the stars.

* * *

"Don't call me Doctor Smith. I'm just the Doctor," he calls from under the console in her third hour. She's texted her mum, who naturally thinks she's going to get '_airs'_ but bugger that.

So far, she's been handed the job of Lunch-and-Snack-Master, and he gives her a sheepish look when he explains he can't cook for the life of him. He seemed to like her sandwiches, but that's all she's good at really.

(she doesn't tell him she's inherited her mother's culinary skills)

He's also given her a whirl-wind tour of the house, running through the corridors and pointing out rooms at breakneck pace before dancing back down here to 're-stabilise the connectors before everything goes boom'.

This is fun.

"Why not?" she asks curiously, balancing herself gingerly.

She's laden down with a plate of biscuits and a strange looking wrench that she tosses to him at regular intervals. He's quite good with reflexes, apart from the time he dropped it on his foot.

Got quite an arsenal of incentive curses as well. She's never heard of Rassilon before.

"For one thing," he says, "it's not my real name. I put it on the sheet because otherwise I sounded like some sort of a brothel owner. At least that's what Amy said. She's usually right, and when she's not I just pretend she is. Otherwise she gets a bit…_cranky_."

"Amy?" she asks dubiously. "Your girlfriend?"

"No!" He sounds shocked, head popping up into her view. He clambers out, loping over to her. His fair is slightly uneven, legs bowed a bit. "_No!_ She's got a husband. Lovely man, Rory. Bit pessimistic, but aren't we all, eh?"

"Right." She smiles at his slightly manic speech and gives him a biscuit. His mouth full, he sends her a thumbs up. "So…_do_ you have a girlfriend? Wife?"

He swallows and looks at her askance. "Not that I'm not flattered…" he begins cautiously, rubbing at the crumbs on his chin nervously,"but I didn't quite mean _that_ type of assistant-"

"No! No, that's not what…" she giggles. "I have a boyfriend, I was just wondering cause the house seemed so empty and everything."

"Oh." He's gone a wonderful shade of red. "Of course. Right. Well, no. I did…but it's all very complicated. Anyway. Gone now."

Something passes over his face like a shadow. Her teeth dig into her lip. "Sorry," she murmurs, but he waves it off.

"The past is the past, Rose," he says, reaching for another biscuit. "I've been lots of things in my life, but right now I'm an inventor, which is all that matters."

She wonders whether he was a teacher, he's so good at lecturing. Certainly it's easy to picture him up the front of a classroom, what with all the tweed.

"So." She sidles off the jump seat to stand next to him. He's taller than her; she's eye-level with his neck. "What is this, exactly?" Her gesture encompasses the entire console.

"I'm researching time travel," he says excitedly, all melancholy vanishing. "It's a fascinating concept really, because I think there's this sort of energy we can harness, called Vort-"

That's when the console explodes, in what she's sure won't be her first pyrotechnic display working for the Doctor.

Through the choking smoke and loud curses, she can hear he's laughing. She does too, lying on her back, the floor cold against her skin; the poor buttoned top hasn't survived very well.

He stumbles over to her, a vague shape in the fog. "Rose? Are you hurt?" His tone is half concerned and half amused.

"No!" she says, laughing again. "Is it always this…dangerous?"

He finds her hand and draws her to her feet. "Without a doubt!" he replies, and she doesn't stop grinning for quite a while.

* * *

"Where've you been?" he mum asks irritably when Rose finally sweeps in the flat, rain dripping onto the carpet. "Oh my god your _hair_! And my good Marc Jacobs skirt-it's ruined!"

After helping the Doctor clean up, and making sure nothing was irreparably damaged, he'd waved her off with an instruction to come again tomorrow at eight.

Eight to five, that's not so bad. Still not clear on wages, but he doesn't seem like a stingy bloke. Just absent-minded. But then, he is a sort of genius, isn't he? All that about 'reversing polarity' and physics. Stuff she might understand better if she hadn't dropped out.

But he said it was alright. He needed someone to listen and help him, not a lab partner. And while she can't help feeling a bit stupid, but his easy, charmingly-awkward manner soothes that nicely.

Not a bad boss to have, in the scheme of things.

Jackie's tapping her foot now, and Rose shrugs, tossing her coat to the side. She smells of smoke and metal, something sharp in her mouth.

"Sorry, mum. The Doctor kept me a bit late, that's all."

"Oh, yeah, the _Doctor_. I got your message alright. Rose, what exactly has he got you doing over there? Cause I know he might seem nice but-"

"Mum!" She puts a hand to get temples, groaning. "It ain't like that. He's just an inventor, s'all. He makes me hold wrenches and biscuits and things." She glares at her mother, who glares straight back. "S'good work. Honest."

Jackie grimaces, turning back to the telly. "Give him a chance; you'll be holding more than just tools," she mutters darkly and then sighs. "Go on, then. Shower and then it's shepherd's pie for dinner. Tina came in; I've got loads to tell you. Would you believe- Adriana's fooling around with the butcher! You know, Finches, the young one from behind the counter. James, I think his name was…"

Rose wanders down the corridor, wincing at the trail her sooty fingers leave. She doesn't care a whit about the estate's gossip, but can't tell her mum that. She'd just whine about '_one day of posh streets and she thinks she's the bloody Queen.'_

Staring at herself in the mirror, she grins. Covered with dirt, tangled hair and ruined clothes, nineteen years old and shopgirl no longer. Maybe being laid off wasn't the worst thing in the world, anyway. That bloke deserved a good talking-to, pinching her bum like that.

Okay. So maybe some of the things she'd said to him had been sort of unnecessary. But it's turned out nicely now, hasn't it?

The Doctor's assistant.

This is going to be _fantastic._


	2. Chapter 2

**Lovely to see the response, guys. And just a quick note: this is astory, certainly, but focuses more on the evolution of a relationship than a twisting, surprising adventure plot. So, er, no Daleks, is what I'm getting at.**

**So enjoy, and do remember I value your feedback immensely.**

* * *

By the first day of her second week she has fetched biscuits, held tea, burnt toast and watched (twice) as the Doctor burnt himself on one of the gadgets on the console.

Today she has abandoned the 'office wear', as he calls it, and gone for a plain pair of jeans and an old t-shirt. Her sneakers are scuffed, and she's worried they might mark the shined wooden floor in the hallway.

He says he doesn't mind.

She's learnt things too, being here. That he's insane, one, but that's obvious. He's also nice. More than one of the bosses she's had have tried to pull her and he's not like that remotely. Friendly, odd, exuberant and whimsical are words that pop into her mind periodically, and they suit him exactly.

_On Thursday he grabs her hand and asks her, "Ready for an adventure Miss Tyler?" and then runs out of his house and down the street, into the bracing, freezing air. He wants milk and his feet pound the concrete eagerly, his mouth curved up when they burst past bemused pedestrians and skid into the grocery._

_She can't help but smile at that, really, even if he hasn't enough money for milk and she ends up buying it._

_"Cheapskate," she tells him. He laughs._

But today he's fiddling around grumpily and she's been told to explore.

"Look around, have a peek, watch out for the carnivorous plants. They like blondes," he warns and she's not sure he's joking.

So it's the long cold corridors for her today. She's nursing a cup of tea in one hand idly, fingers of the other trailing along the peeling wallpaper. She's wandered up to the top floor, she thinks, from all those steps.

Some doors are locked, wood battered and chipped, broadcasting 'forbidden'. She looks past those ones, not wanting to invade his privacy. There's a strange sort of melancholy to him sometimes, and she doesn't quite want to know why, just yet.

But some are tossed wide open, and those she darts into, greeted by monstrous shelves of books and high ceilings, by tiled pools and large gardens with bright heaps of flowers. There's a kitchen painted three shades of pink, and countless rooms cluttered with pieces of mechanical junk.

There are also lots of bedrooms. Most of them are untouched, but some have sheets rumpled or posters half tacked, photos shoved under the edges of dusty mirrors. She inhales at one and tastes sex, blushes at the pair of handcuffs lying in the middle of the bed and the picture of an impossibly handsome man lying on the dresser.

_Well,_ she thinks carefully, _he did say it was complicated_.

But there are lots of girl's rooms as well, bottles of make up and perfume, a half used lipstick, silk shorts on the floor. She wonders if he's had lots of _assistants_ as she cautiously backs out of a room with a wedding dress piled on the floor and a 1920's styled headdress next to it.

Maybe that's why he's sad.

Turning back, draining the last of her tea, she makes her way to the library she saw earlier, not quite sure what to think of this latest development.

Did he fire them all, or did they leave? Die? She doesn't know, probably doesn't have a right to know, but...well. She's curious.

Settling down in a large crimson armchair, she flicks through a hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice, frowning when she sees the publication date.

Wow. That's serious money straight there, on her lap. Her mum would be on it like a hound...

Guiltily flushing, Rose pushes the book away, ashamed for even considering it. She's a good person, she's not going to steal from her boss.

Besides, it's one of the few classics she likes. Dickens never worked for her, really, and Shakespeare was hopeless. But something about this one kept her going.

"Hello!" comes the Doctor's voice from the door and she jolts back into the seat, heart pounding. He's so _quiet_. "Was wondering where you'd gotten to."

He steps further in, and reveals the oil dotting his nose and the stained cuffs of his shirt. "Do you like books?" he asks. "I didn't have you down as a girl who liked books."

He looks enormously pleased at this, strolling over to take Pride and Prejudice from her. "Jane Austen fan, eh. Not one of my favourites. A bit..._cliche_," he muses and Rose hides a glare.

"It's romantic," she protests. He scoffs loudly, coming to sit in the chair next to her.

"Exactly what I was saying. Boy meets girl, or boy meets boy or girl meets- sorry, that doesn't matter. Something bad happens, then either one dies or it ends perfectly with a kiss," he complains, pointing at her. "You are of the millions that buy into it."

"Hey, not all of them are like that!" She crosses her arms, and he mimics her.

"Name me one," he challenges. She thinks hard for a moment, shuffling through dozens of movies in her head.

"Roman Holiday," she says triumphantly. "That didn't end with death or them getting together."

"Yes, yes, alright, okay. I'll give you that one, but-" he shakes his finger at her, "but-nobody falls in love in a day. Not even in Rome. It's impossible and unrealistic."

She grins at him, at how riled up he's getting. "Not a believer in love at first sight then," she teases.

"Of course not. Infatuation, yes, maybe, but love is entirely different. You can have a...a crush on an actor or musician or somebody instantly, but that isn't love. Love-true, proper, _deep_ love-takes time. And lots of it."

Rose props her head up with her hand and blinks at him, secretly surprised at the sentiment. He looks back at her for a moment and then directs his gaze to the book in his hands.

"I knew exactly what was going to happen with Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy," he continues, "and I was eight. Granted I _am_ a genius, but still, that's pretty telling, isn't it?"

Rose thinks for a while, mouth twisting up. "I still like it," she says firmly. "I think it's more real than a lot of stories. They're both flawed, yeah? An' they get in the way of themselves constantly but that's how it works sometimes." She raises her gaze to his defiantly.

He looks delighted with her. "Good," he says. "I love a girl who defends her opinions." Jumping to his feet, he gestures to the door. "Tea?"

She nods, sensing the conversation had ended, and then clambers out of the chair. Just as they're about to leave the room, he presses the book into her hands with a gentle smile.

"I don't particularly like it," he says by way of explanation. "It's much better for it to be owned by someone who values it."

She keeps it in her jacket, protecting it from the rain when she walks to the bus-stop, and then reading it while London flicks past from a scraped glass window, dreary and buzzing at the same time.

* * *

The next morning she is trying to find a hammer that the Doctor needs to do something sciencey and complicated when a redhead whirls into the 'console room'. She's pretty and thin, and there's a rather unimpressed man trailing along behind her.

"Doctor!" she cries, and he stops fixing the red-handled lever to sweep her up in his arms. Rose watches, bemused.

"Ponds," he crows, letting go of the woman to hug the man, who suffers good-naturedly. "Rory the _Roman_," he says, ruffling the man's hair. He groans.

"That was only _one_ costume party," he complains, "and you just have to keep bringing it up, don't you?"

"Yep," says the redhead. Rose guesses it's Amy, the one he talked about on the first day. The not-girlfriend.

Amy plonks down her bag onto the flooring and then directs her gaze towards Rose curiously. "Hi," she says. "Are you the new assistant?"

Her accent is Scottish, her eyes probing and curious. Rose smiles and is about to introduce herself when the Doctor does it for her.

"Ponds, meet Rose Tyler. She's brilliant. Rose, this is Amelia Pond, one of my oldest, dearest friends, and Rory, her husband."

"Her husband?" Rory asks irritably. "I'm a bit more than that, you know."

"Yeah, he carries bags," Amy adds. He scowls at her until Amy squeezes his hand, and his glare fades into a look of adoration.

Rose thinks they're kind of cute.

The Doctor runs to get tea, dragging Amy after him, her saying something cheery about a ruined honeymoon. Rose is left with Rory, who leans awkwardly on the railing next to her, staring at his hands.

She feels obligated to say _something_.

"So, how long have you and Amy known the Doctor?" she asks, and his head jerks up like he'd forgotten her existence.

"Er...ages, really. Amy was a kid, I think, but I didn't really meet him until later." He glances at the console, and then smiles slightly, a bit sadly. "Heard lots about him, though."

"And how long have you been married?"

"Oh, not too long, actually. About nine months or so." This time his expression is bitter, something enormous lingering behind his eyes. "It took her a while to decide what..._who_ she wanted. But that's Amy for you-" he sighs, "and I suppose really it shouldn't matter at all."

Rose thinks of Mickey, his smile and careless arms, the bright, slightly dim way he barrels into everything. There were never any obstacles; their relationship slid so smoothly and easily into romantic it scared her. Same pub visits, same lunches and dinner, but now with kisses, with staged touches and stuttering endearments that never fit right in her mouth.

There's nothing in his eyes like in Rory's.

"If it makes you feel better," she says carefully, "I don't think he thinks of her like that."

Rory catches her eye and nods. "Yeah, I know. But...but." He shakes himself. "I should _not_ be talking about my marital problems with a stranger. Wow. Sorry. Long plane flight, from Jamaica, actually."

And suddenly Amy is back, arm in arm with her husband, and Rose nearly smiles at how good they seem together. "Yep," she says brightly, "cause the cruise ship crashed."

Rose shifts the wrench to raise an eyebrow at the Doctor. "Was it your fault?" she asks, and he shrugs.

"A bit. Not really. Background checks on captain, you know, I didn't really think alcoholism was _that_ big a problem..."

Amy slugs him on the shoulder, and her mouth curves up into a smile Rory can't stop staring at.

* * *

The day is a learning curve for Rose, really. So many inside jokes, so much she doesn't know about him. Not that she expects to be an expert after a fortnight, but...

Sort of thought of him as a rich madman with a massive house, bigger on the inside. Maybe his parents built it, maybe he inherited it. But never much beyond the present, just a bloke who was nice to talk to, who had crazy ideas about time travel and literature and gave her wages at the end of the week.

But now, curled into a chair in the fifth dining room she's seen, Amy is laughing about something he did do long ago in Leadworth wherever that is. About his muck-ups and fuck-ups, his awful dancing at their wedding. He's laughing and they are, and across from the Doctor, Rose is tracing the grains in the table.

Makes her think, is all.

So it was the nurse and the kiss-o-gram and the inventor, apparently, traveling with the Doctor over the world. Rory displays a scar he got from a mugging in Bangkok on his palm, and Amy kisses it briefly. They're always touching, a brush of hands or shoulders, a quiet word into each other's ears.

Rose puts it down to newly-weds, but can't really imagine Mickey giggling about nothing to her, even with a shiny gold ring.

At the end of the afternoon, when the sun is dying below the horizon and she is far too late, Amy and Rory wave off with see-you-soons and nice-to-meet-you's. The Doctor's hands linger at Amy's sides and when Rory looks at Rose, a brief, understanding moment passes between them, too quick to define.

Their car-a red shined one that the Doctor gave them-jerks away into the rapidly dimming night. The Doctor glances at Rose and then smiles.

"So, what did you think?"

The question seems to be a test of sorts. His eyes are probing, and Rose gets the feeling she needs to answer honestly, to keep in his good opinion.

Strangely, his good opinion is something she's starting to value.

"They're nice," she says finally, wincing at the weakness of it, "good people."

He studies her face for a moment, and she has no idea what he sees in it, only that after a minute he seems satisfied with her.

"Bit late. I'll drive you home, if you want."

And yeah, she does.

* * *

His car is beat up, same shade of blue as his house, and nick-names Sexy, because of the 'slick new technology he installed the day before last'. She slides in the passenger seat, leather brushing denim.

He's an awful driver, but the kind of jolting awful that doesn't actually endanger her, just is bracingly unpleasant. A song drifts out from the radio, and he turns up the volume as he bolts forward and skids to a stop just as quickly.

"Fan of classical, then," she states, and he nods, a faint smile pulling the corners of his mouth.

"Well, yes, of course. There's nothing that quite matches up to a perfectly executed piece, I think, excepting jazz. Do you like Miller? I love Miller. I know he's supposed to have sold out to consumerism but I..." he brings himself to a halt. "Sorry. Babbling. Amy tells me off, but I can't help it."

"S'alright, I don't mind. Oh, I'm just off here." She motions and he swerves amongst the traffic, drawing horns and shouts.

"Sorry," he shouts, oblivious to the fact no one can hear him except her. The car draws to a stop, stuttering, and Rose's fingers curl around the handle.

"Bye, then" she says uncertainly, and he leans over and performs a series of awkward air-kisses she finds endearingly ridiculous. "Thanks for driving me," she laughs.

The cold air wraps around her, a harsh bracing shield. There's a bit of wind that plays with her hair and brings colour into her cheeks, a shiver in her step. She nearly misses his called goodbye, nearly doesn't catch his wave and see his tail lights putter off into the distance.

Rose looks up and sees fog and steer lamps.

Bit of a pity there aren't any stars.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everybody! Here is the third chapter of the Sparks 'verse, and I do hope it was worth the wait. A reminder I do appreciate all feedback, and a thank you to those that reviewed.**

* * *

Amy and Rory, he tells her wearily, fiddling with his 'sonic screwdriver' (she _still_ doesn't get how that thing even works), will not be around much. She's surprised; they seemed so close last week. When she asks why, he just shrugs and presses a hand to his temples.

"They come and go," he answers. "She's pregnant, you know, that's why they were here." He doesn't look too happy, and again she wonders maybe if he's in love with Amy. It doesn't seem such a far-off possibility, not after she's seen them together.

"Oh." She bites her lip. "Right. Um, so-"

"_So_," he interrupts, "Have you finished your book?" Something sparks and he swears quietly.

Accepting the change of subject quietly, she nods. He clambers out from under the console, nursing his burnt fingers, swinging to land in front of her neatly. Goggles still mask his eyes, and when she grins at how ridiculous he looks, he smiles too.

"Would you like another?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer before striding off into the depths of his house, leaving her to run behind.

She's gotten used to the winding twist of rooms now; he likes sometimes to be alone, and so she's taken to wandering around when he's especially busy. Yesterday she found a kid's play-ground complete with a silly slide and sandpit set into the wooden floor, and then a strange room filled with snow-globes.

She's decided not to ask, but he must be older than he looks, to have collected and built so much.

But now he's striding towards the library, giving her no time to peek into open doors, and when they get there he practically sprints to a dusty bookshelf near the empty fireplace.

She steps next to him, as he trails oily fingers over spines, pausing at a dark cover with precise gold lettering. "This," he proclaims, pulling the thick book out and handing it to her, "is the best thing I've read. Well, _no_, not best...although...well, maybe. Anyway! It's good- read it."

She stares dubiously. "Shakespeare?" she asks warily. They'd done some in school before she dropped out. She never liked it, really, so many dizzying words and phrases blurring past her. Never understood it, and that probably hasn't changed.

"Try it," he urges. "Much more interesting than Romeo and Juliet. Oh, they're all genius, no doubt, but Hamlet especially. Well, in my opinion, which you might not agree with if you're one of those hopeless romantics...which I now remember you _are_."

"Just cause I like Austen," she grumbles, but tucks the book under her arm. He notices, with a quiet smug smile.

"I thought," he says casually, "since I set the microwave on fire and your cooking is awful-"

She sputters, but he raises a hand.

"-we might go out for lunch. I've a hankering for chips, now I think. There's a little place near here-makes lovely ones." He grins, rocking foward onto his feet. "I'll even pay."

Lunch with her boss. Or, on the other hand, chips with the Doctor. Who's mad and funny and nice.

"As long as you're not driving," she teases. "Don't think I can ever let you behind a wheel again."

Rolling his eyes, he reaches for her hand, wrapping it around hers. She glances at their entwined fingers in surprise but he doesn't seem to think anything of it, pulling her out of the library in a rush.

* * *

"No, you're not serious?" she gasps, leaning on the glass table, hand covering her mouth. "You _can't_ be serious!"

He nods, picking one of the crispiest chips and soaking it in vinegar. "Never visit Venice, Rose, it ends altogether badly."

She takes a chip, chewing it thoughtfully. The waitress sweeps by their table again, black hair streaming behind her, and eyes up the Doctor. Again. Rose hides a smirk; he's oblivious to any female attention.

Maybe he's...

"They really thought they were vampires?" she asks, cocking her head.

"Yep. Completely bonkers; even had a device they thought would bring down the heavens. I had them reported, disabled, and that was the end of that." He nods. "Well. Except for the rather nasty..." He gestures to his neck sheepishly.

She snorts. "They tried to seduce you, didn't they?"

There's a very pregnant and slightly defensive pause. Then, "Yes," he says and slumps down. "A bit." Rose giggles. After a slow silence, where she gazes half at him and half at the park outside of the window, he opens his mouth.

"Rose," he says. "About...Amy and Rory. It's just...I don't think they should be around me anymore."

She frowns, eyes solely on him now. He stares back, mouth twisted down, open and honest. Sad. "Why?" she asks softly.

"I'm not very good for them," he replies quietly. The mood has shifted abruptly, and she has the strange urge to comfort him.

"But..." she begins. "You're their friend. They love you."

"Yes. Yes, I think that's the problem. I met them and took them on fantastic adventures everywhere, but...they need a normal life, now. With a house and carpets and...and well." He smiles a bit wryly. "A baby. And I'm not a normal life. I'm not good for that."

On an impulse, she reaches for his hand. For now, he's a man and a friend-vulnerable and guilty and sad. And she hasn't a clue why, but that doesn't mean she can't cheer him up.

"They're gonna be great," she says. "And one day they're going to show up with a little kid on your doorstep and they're going to be _happy_."

He glances up at her, away from the napkin shredded in his hands. "Yeah. Course," he replies, although it sounds like he's trying to convince himself of it. "Of course."

Drawing back, she tilts back in her chair and folds her arms. "You've lost a lot of people haven't you?" she asks him, and he nods.

"So many," he says. "Too many."

""Well," she decides, "You've got me now. So," she jumps up, "let's go. Something's probably exploded by now."

Looking unfathomably grateful, he follows, but not before informing her he hasn't the money to pay. She swats him, digs in her purse, and declares him to be an awful date.

He's alright, actually.

* * *

There are times she loves Mickey Smith, and dragging him drunk down the street in broken heels and a far-too-short skirt glittering with half-sewn sequins is not one of them. It's freezing, he's mumbling to himself and she's not exactly sober herself, tripping over cracks and her own pride.

_"Always at the Doctor's ain't it? What, you seeing him now? I was right; he just wanted a bit of fluff on the side. He's probably married with kids and stuff-just using you."_

Sighing, she considers calling the bloke in question, but she's only known him three weeks. Not exactly drunk dialing status, and he'd be doing something important anyway. Reading astrophysics textbooks, or calculating numbers that sweep past her, blurring into confusion. Plus, it'd be excruciating, seeing her like this.

_"He's not my boyfriend Mickey, he's better than that! He wouldn't do anything like what you're saying, and for your information, he's alone. Not that it's any of your bloody business!"_

Her flat is in sight, the stairs cutting up into the building. Groaning, she stumbles up them awkwardly, the dead weight in her arms and wobbly sole no help at all. He was so jealous, just because the Doctor had lent her books and actually liked having her around, thought she was useful.

Wiping a couple of errant tears off her cheeks, she unlocks the door with shaking fingers. She dumps Mickey on the couch and tosses a blanket over him as an afterthought, slinging off her ruined shoes angrily. Thanking God her mum's out with Howard-their spat having resolved itself-she slams the door to her room.

_"Yeah, well, don't come crying to me when he breaks your heart, alright? Just go ahead, leave me back here and run off to him."_

Her feet catch on the carpet, and she crashes into bed ungracefully, hem scratching the tips of her thighs. She can see mascara smearing her pillowcase, but she's too tired to do anything but pass out wearily, into dreams of maybe-possibly-perhaps.

Some Sunday night.

* * *

The morning is crisp and grim, dull sun highlighting a note Mickey left for her on the counter. She picks it up with a groan, pain in her head stabbing at her temples. Eyeliner has left streaks of black surrounding her lashes, and her hair is an awful mess.

_Sorry about what I said. Still doesn't mean I'm wrong though._

She crumples it. That's so him, isn't it? She loves him, yeah; he's been good to her, after the Great Jimmy Stones Debacle. Supported her and taken her through it. Like a rock or an anchor.

But Jesus he's a git sometimes. It's a bloody _job_, a chance to learn some new things and make some friends and do things, not shag her boss. Huffing out a frustrated breath, feeling her head throb in time with her heart, she knows today is going to be awful.

"Rose? What happened last night?"

She turns to find her mother in a man's dressing gown, hands on her hips and thunder in her eyes.

_Great_.

* * *

The door is locked. It's raining, cold, half an hour after she was supposed to be here, and the door is locked. Staring at the impenetrable, stubborn blue door, she feels the last of her patience vanish. It's too much, just _too much._

Especially after the shouting match this morning with her mum, who wants Rose to a) make up with Mickey and b) quit her job with the Doctor because 'he's messing up her personal life'.

To which she told Jackie exactly where she could stick her ideas.

But now, she can feel liquid soaking her jacket, trickling down her shirt, dripping in her eyes. There's such a pounding in her head, lingering fury with her mum and boyfriend-and now with the Doctor, who's either ignoring her fierce knocks and calls, or out somewhere, having completely forgotten he's supposed to let her in.

Sinking to the cold marble steps, Rose buries her head in her hands. What she wouldn't give for a holiday somewhere warm and sunny, away from the Powell Estate, with blue skies and warm white sand...She takes a deep shuddering breath, feeling her socks get damp, her jeans wet and uncomfortable.

Her head aches.

"Rose? Are you alright?"

His voice comes from far above her and she hears something thud on the ground. She raises her head and stares at him half mournfully, half furiously. "The door was locked," she moans. "And my head is killing me."

The Doctor sets his groceries down with a sigh, unlocks the door and helps her to her feet with an amused look. "Come on," he says. "To the kitchen with you."

She stumbles through the house with a sniffle, tracking water on the wood and every noise digging a dagger into her brain. "I hate Mondays."

"Well, that's a given, isn't it?" he asks rhetorically, from behind her. Giving her a little push, he directs her to the main kitchen where she makes the tea and the (awful) lunch. The pretty blue tiles calm her down a little; almost like the house is soothing her intentionally. "Saturdays, though-they're brilliant. I went to Paris on Saturday. What did you do?"

"Paris? You went to Paris on Saturday?" she repeats dumbly, taking a seat on the counter. He eyes her arse with disapproval but doesn't say anything, simply ducking around to various cupboards and pulling out items carelessly.

"Why not? I was bored, the console was _not cooperating-_" he yells the last two words with some vigour, like it can hear him, "-and they have wonderful custard."

"Custard." She laughs, in spite of her headache. "You've lost your marbles, mate."

"Undoubtably. What did you do last night, then?" Grabbing a blender he's modified to make more noise with less blending (_but Rose, it's got wings!) _he tosses everything he's gathered into it and presses the start button.

She groans, pressing a hand to her ears.

"Sorry!" he yells over the racket. It shuts off suddenly, and he is pressing a cup of something lumpy and yellow into her hands. She stares at it, swallows, and then looks up at him doubtfully.

"Best handover remedy in three continents. Oh, the fun I had when I was young..." He trails off. "I'm fairly sure I met JK Rowling. She was splendid."

"How old are you, anyway? Twelve?"

He rolls his eyes. "Older than I look, Miss Barely Nineteen. Now. Drink. Tastes like old shoes, but it'll get rid of your pounding headache."

She does.

"Oh my god," she splutters, downing the rest as quickly as she can, "this is worse than Mum's casserole. What's in here?"

"You'd vomit if I told you. And I like my beautiful house without your chucked up carrots on the floor. You going to tell me what you were doing yesterday, eh?" He takes the cup, and of course, leaves it in the sink. Taking up a seat on the counter opposite her, he crosses his lanky legs.

Deliberating quietly, she studies the toaster next to her. She's seen him take it apart a couple of times, fiddling idly with wires and not caring he still had the power on and was _this close_ to electrocuting himself.

"Boyfriend trouble," she sighs eventually. "And mother trouble. And...everything trouble. Can we not talk about it?"

"Oh." He looks surprised. "Yes, right. Of course. Would you rather watch a movie or something?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Don't you have to work?"

"Yes," he says, smiling. Tapping her on the nose, he launches himself back up to his feet, nearly whacking her nose with his elbow. "But you look like you could use a rest. There's a cinema down the hall, first on your right, second on your left and on past the aquarium."

"But-"

"I can find the bucket of tools alright without you just this once Rose. And I'm sure I can fix myself lunch. Well. No, no I'm not, but I'll manage. Off you go." He shoos her good-naturedly, flicking his fingers. "Enjoy your Johnny Depp or Colin Firth or whoever."

Before she can thank him, he's strode back to his console, immersed (probably) in how he can get his time machine to work. But still, it's awfully nice of him, to let her skive off at his house, to offer up his movie room and still, somehow, pay her for it.

Repeating his instructions in her mind, she belatedly notices her headache has vanished. She smiles quietly.

Maybe he really _is_ a Doctor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Can I say I am absolutely delighted with the response I've had review-wise, and it really makes my day-even a couple of words. Thank you to everyone who has, and I hope you enjoy the latest chapter!**

* * *

"So," her mum asks pointedly, "Have you made up with Mickey, then?" She reaches for her wine glass like she means business, and fixes her eyes on her daughter.

Rose stares down at her plate, scraping the fork idly along the surface. She's not hungry, really- the Doctor managed to get a roast chicken from somewhere for lunch. He'd dissected it expertly, demanding she tell him what body part she was eating before she put the meat in her mouth.

_"The white bit," she tells him bluntly, and eats it with a sigh of contentment, crunching the skin between her teeth. She's startled by a loud, low laugh from him. _

_"Noted," he says, mixing his chicken with honey gleefully. "Rose Tyler, veritable expert on biology, hmm?"_

_She curtsies._

_He challenges her for the wishbone, and probably lets her win._

_(she doesn't know what to ask for, really)_

But the lunch means she's unable to stomach her mother's pasta, oily and slightly undercooked. The mince is watery, and her mum's looks aren't helping either.

"A bit, yeah," she answers finally, thinking tiredly of Mickey's apologetic kisses, excuses of drunkenness, and the inevitable wandering hands that traced a path up her shirt.

"He's a good bloke," says Jackie decidedly. "Like Howard. You don't get those men often, Rose, so take my advice: stick with him. Steady job, honest, no airs and graces. He'd make a good husband, you know. Better than that weird employer of yours. He's _off_, Rose, something's wrong with that man-"

Rose stands up abruptly. "I'm tired," she announces firmly. "And you can save your match-making for Keisha, thanks. She's got it bad for a bloke who wears pants so tight he's never gonna have kids."

Jackie opens her red, shined mouth to say something, but Rose holds up a hand to stop the torrent. "I'm not gonna marry Mickey, and I ain't quitting with the Doctor. See you in the morning."

Her steps are loud and growling on the floor, the door slammed a tad harder than necessary. Thunking down in amongst pillows and blankets, she closes her eyes. She can hear Jackie moving, clearing plates, washing up. Rose kicks her trainers off, and tugs down her jeans until she's in her knickers and a shirt, shivering.

Then the unmistakable clack of heels, the huffed sigh (far too loud to be private) and a muttered, "Going out." The front door creaks shut, and she feels the guilt rising up in her throat. Turning over, she tugs the doona over her hips.

She's all Jackie's got. Smothering, over-protective, opinionated, but...still the same mum who worked two jobs for her gymnastic lessons, who did her hair and put on make-up and wiped off tears when boys broke her heart.

It wouldn't be like this if Dad were alive, she thinks. No men wandering in and out, no crazy benders and short skirts and the desperate search for another Pete.

Suddenly she knows exactly what she should have wished for.

* * *

"It's ready," the Doctor says with a smile, a large, smug one. "Perfected-absolutely sure. 99%. 75%." He frowns. "Let's just say it's more than half likely. Lovely odds-_just_ the right amount of challenge in there."

Rose jerks up from her magazine, feet curled under her, thumbnail in her mouth. "What?"

The Doctor plucks the trashy thing from her hands and flicks it over a rail disgustedly. "Time machine," he says. "We could meet Churchill, find out who Jack the Ripper really was, attend Vicky's coronation...dull affair but _still_..."

She stands up slowly, staring at the man opposite her, the one with goggles on and oil splashed across his shirt. "You can't be serious," she says. He can't _really_ think they can travel in time.

"Oh, but I am! Think on it-" he grabs her hand and twirls her out messily. "Time travellers! We could be...Shiver and Shake, Bonnie and Clyde well _no_, not that last one."

She laughs despite herself, despite the disbelief. "You finished your time machine." Nodding proudly, he slaps the console affectionately, and it whirs quietly. She blows out a heavy breath.

"Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime, Rose Tyler?" he asks, with all the drama of a marriage proposal. Shaking her head, she touches a dial he often tweaks with, wonders if he should be locked up in an insane asylum.

"Yeah, alright," she murmurs. "Go for it."

Clapping his hands, he spins on his heels and starts punching levers. The tube in the middle hums and glows, a wheezing, whining noise from under her and he laughs and-

_bang_

There's shaking and smoke, a lash of fire and she's thrown to the ground hard, knocking her elbow painfully. A cough wrenches its way out of her throat, and the chaos settles, her arm throbbing, a strange urge to giggle in her chest.

Definitely lost it.

"Rose," he calls, sounding panicked. Footsteps near her head. "Rose, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she manages. "Guessing the whole time travel thing fell through, then." He kneels, wrapping an arm around her waist gently before raising her upright.

"Perhaps," he says sheepishly. His hand lingers until she's steady, then returns to its owner's side. "Oh, _alright_. Definitely." His shoulders slump. "Sorry, Rose. I thought..."

"Hey," she says, gesturing at the mostly fine console room. Remnants of smoke hang in corners, but the majority of it is undamaged. "Plenty of time to get it right."

"I'm a genius," he insists grumpily. "I'm supposed to get it right on the first try, impress the girl...and instead I get my eyebrows singed."

She sees the half-burnt lines above his eyes, and giggles, putting a hand over her mouth. He looks ridiculous.

But there's real disappointment in his face, and Rose huffs the hair from her face, studying his downcast expression. He really thought it was going to work, she realises.

"Come on," she says. "Can your genius handle a walk?"

His nose wrinkles. "A walk," he repeats with distaste. "Why on earth would I want that? The console is damaged and-"

"You need a break." Her eyebrow raises because his can't. "_Before_ you explode the street."

* * *

They end up perched on a park bench. Nowhere special, just somewhere she used to go when her hair was in pigtail and her knees were always skinned and bruised. The playground is decorated with a couple of enthusiastic children, shouting and launching themselves from the monkey bars, and people wander past them with phones and babies, lost in their lives.

The Doctor tips his head back to stare at the grey clouds above them. His scarf is stripy and long, clashing with...well, everything. Rose fishes for another roasted peanut.

"Better?" she asks, and he shrugs. "Just cause it went wrong this time," she continues cheerfully, "doesn't mean everything ends like 'that'. You're an inventor, yeah? Why don't you look for a couple new ideas, let this one rest for a bit?"

Privately, she thinks time travel isn't going to work for him, but really doesn't want to hurt his feelings.

He turns to face her. "I suppose I _have_ been thinking of things..." he admits, eyes flickering to hers. She sees the ingenuity in them, the mad creative spark.

"Well, there you go then. Tinker to your heart's content," she says, and crunches a nut, sugar cracking and coating her tongue. He's silent for a long while, then, staring out at a woman who's trying to get her puppy to play fetch.

"You won't want to leave?" he asks. "Now that I'm just...tinkering."

"Why'd I do that?" She frowns at him. "It's fun, you're a great boss and," she grins at him with her tongue poking through her teeth, "you pay well."

He smiles back, a slow, thinking one. "Practically a ray of sunshine, you," he says.

"That's what friends do, you know," she reasons. "Cheer you up, get you back on your feet."

He takes a breath. "And we are friends, aren't we? I've always hated that worker-boss relationship."

She thinks for a moment. "Yeah," she says. "Friends." He smiles, still looking out at the unruly puppy. It squeaks, racing between the owner's feet.

She offers him a peanut. He steals the whole bag, and she wrestles him for it, protesting when he holds it at arms length. His face is bright and laughing, teasing her lack of reach.

After he's conceded the food, she lets the silence linger on comfortably until she feels the confession rise up easily on her tongue.

"My dad was an inventor," she says, trying for casual. "Never made anything good though. Died before that could happen- a stupid hit and run." She fiddles with her beanie. "He would have though," she says, conviction shining in her tone. Vaguely, she hears her voice sound younger than usual. "He would have."

The Doctor's hand comes to rest on her shoulder, fingers touching her hair softly. "Is that where you'd go, if it had worked? To go and see your dad?" His expression is sympathetic.

"Maybe," she concedes. Looking up at him, she adds, "We won't know, though. Because you'll be busy inventing loads of useful things. Like silent blenders."

The strange moment passes, and his hand falls from her shoulder to rest near hers on the damp wood. "Yeah," he echoes. "Or...robot dogs." The puppy barks, as if it heard them.

Rose snorts. "You could call it K-9," she puns, and it's _really_ awful, but he laughs anyway. The air is cool and fresh, wind biting, but she feels warm, like she's glowing from inside out.

* * *

"Here," he says when it's time for her to leave. She stops packing up her bag, one sleeve of her coat hanging off her arm.

He steps closer, fiddling with something. Eventually he makes a pleased noise, and presses a silver key into her hands. It's threaded onto a thin chain.

"I locked you out on Monday, so I thought you should have it, in case of...me being out," he says. She hears the silent offer, anyway.

"Thanks," she says, touched. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah." He squeezes her clasped hands and sends her a small smile. "We can start on the dog."

Rose laughs and untangles herself, waving when he follows her to the front door. "Bye," she says, eyes bright.

"Bye," he replies, but she's already gone, key hot in her fingers. She stops to clip it around her neck before making a break for the bus, feeling the warmth against her chest.

Like it's alive.

* * *

Mickey calls, beckoning her down to the pub, promising he'll behave. After today, she figures her boyfriend deserves some of her attention.

Her Mum's out with Howard again. Rose wonders, as she applies mascara and tugs on a dress that's slightly shorter than normal, whether its getting serious. That'd be...weird.

Nice, but weird.

When she makes it down the pub, Mickey's team are losing, but the man himself is talking to Trisha, that girl from the shop who used to be a bit big but went on that fluke Adipose diet.

"Hey," she greets them. Mickey startles a bit but then kisses her lightly, and eyes her legs with interest.

"You look great, babe," he compliments. Trisha makes her excuses, somewhat tightly, and she's left with Mickey and her own sceptical forgiveness.

As soon as she's gone, Mickey leans in for another, longer, kiss. His hands wind up her waist. "Thought we could make up proper," he breathes. "Seeing as you're looking so sexy."

Suddenly, she feels very tired, and remembers the better, genuine thing the Doctor called her this afternoon.

Ray of sunshine. That's loads better than sexy. With a start, she realizes that sex with her boyfriend doesn't make her feel all that great, anymore.

Mickey kisses her ear, and Rose closes her eyes and bites her lip, remembering her mother's words.

* * *

"Have you ever just felt like an awful person?" she asks him the next morning, watching him draw up plans for his new toy. Something called a squareness gun, she thinks.

He looks up at her seriously, eyes sad and face older than it seemed before. "Many, many times," he answers slowly. She twists her fingers together, fidgeting on the chair.

"How do I...not?"

He seems to consider her question for quite a while, staring thoughtfully at his hands. "Rose," he says eventually, "Whatever happened...you're still a good person. Bad choices don't make for a bad soul, and believe me, I am a very excellent authority on that subject."

She takes a breath. "Yeah." The slightly empty feeling of last night flashes in front of her eyes. "I still feel heartless though."

The Doctor just shakes his head. "Not you," he says. "I know plenty of heartless people. Even the fact you're upset proves you have a heart, and a good one at that."

He seems completely confident in her, and she feels some of the worry drain away. "Thanks," she says, and he smiles.

"It's a pleasure."

He keeps on drawing, reaching for a silver ruler occasionally, humming thoughtfully. She takes a sip of tea, and listens to the house, listens to the rooms and the noises that echo comfortingly around them.

"I'm glad you hired me," she says. His expression is quietly kind when he glances at her, pencil balanced between his fingers.

"Me too."


	5. Chapter 5

Okay. This is...well she isn't sure what it is, but it's not pleasant.

"_God_ mum," she moans. Puts a hand over her eyes as the naked man scrambles off the bed, and tugs on a tatty dressing gown. An apple falls out of his pocket, and Jesus, she doesn't even _want_ to know. "Morning Harold."

"Lo Rose," he says sheepishly. Jackie turns over in her bed and sits up, holding the duvet to her protectively.

"I came to apologize for being a brat the last week," Rose says, staring devoutly up at the ceiling. "But I think I might save that for later."

"I thought you were out," Jackie sniffs. "It's not my fault you came barrelling in here without knocking."

Well, at least she hasn't actually caught them at it, like when she stumbled in on Henry and her mum when she was fourteen. No one needs to see that much skin.

_Ever_.

"Yeah, well, that's where I'm going now, thanks," says Rose, and makes for the door. "See you Harold. Enjoy your..." she sighs, "apple."

Her life, sometimes, she swears. And as she exits the flat with a coat in one hand and ten quid in another, she's no idea where she's going. It's cold, and she's hungry. She can nearly taste the rain that's coming.

Tapping her phone on her mouth, Rose leans back against the brick wall. The air swirls around her ankles, sighs at her neck. She was too stunned by her mum's escapades to take more than this threadbare jacket, and beneath that is...

She stares at her fluffy feet miserably, kicking the gravel.

Pyjamas. Pink ones with little dogs on them. And a rather fetching hole in her sleeve. God, why doesn't she _think_?

And she isn't going back in there. Not while her mum and Harold are having it off. She's been there and done that; the noises are not pleasant.

But she can't call Shireen; her boss works her on Sundays, the wanker. She doesn't feel like seeing Mickey, and there's probably a match on, anyway. Jackie's...doing whatever she's doing with Harold and Suki's a bit busy with a new kid and all. Last Rose saw, she looked like she was going to bite her poor bloke's head off.

Well, alright, he might've deserved it for sleeping with Carla right after Suki gave birth. Hang on.

It was _while_ she was giving birth.

Her friend's never had a good eye for men, really.

_Right Rose_, she tells herself. Chin up. Confidence is the key to anything. Channel that one time Shireen got the date wrong for a fancy dress and they were taking inspiration from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Now that had been an interesting bus ride home.

Snickering at the memory, she pushes away from the wall lazily, and walks out of the Estate. Gets a few looks, but gives them right back, ta. Before she knows it, there's the bus stop, and then she's getting on the one that goes right past Trenzalore.

She feels the metal under her flannel top, and reaches up to finger the key. He wouldn't mind if she dropped by, right? Probably pay her over-time. And really, she needs to do something productive or she'll end up eating every chip in London and gaining two stone.

Okay.

Right. He's probably not even there. She can just let herself in and wander back home when she feels confident enough she won't be greeted with Harold's bare pale arse. Find some food in the cupboard to beat away her growling stomach.

He won't mind.

The bus grinds to a stop, and she gets off with a murmured 'thanks' and a sharp glare to a couple of kids laughing at her slippers.

Rose walks down the street, wondering again at the emptiness of it, the lack of life. Houses that are huge and lovely, but so...hollow. She shivers. Nobody ever comes down Trenzalore. She's worked for him a month and a bit now, and not seen another soul.

Number 11 opens easy enough, to cool hallways and the quiet hum of the house she's gotten used to, now. It seems almost happy to have her wandering around, really. Might sound silly, but she really feels welcome.

Rose hangs up her jacket on the peg, and pads to the console room idly, trailing her fingers on the now abandoned machinery. It's still gorgeous; glinting pieces of metal, bright colours, gold and silver and glass.

She crouches down to stare through the floor, placing a hand square on the surface. Bits of everything are scattered underneath; she recognizes a spanner he was moaning about losing on Friday. Snorting, she clambers to her feet and sets off to the library.

Hamlet is still in her bookcase, the spine straight and cover untarnished. Never liked Shakespeare at school, and reading it now...nothing's changed. It makes her feel a little stupid, really, cause he keeps asking what she thinks and she can't answer.

He's so smart, clever, and she...

Opening the doors, it takes a moment to register what she's seeing. Draped over the armchair, a fire crackling merrily in the grate, the Doctor is fast asleep. Long and lanky, legs splayed over the sides. His mouth is slightly parted, pale face relaxed, hair falling over his forehead carelessly.

She holds a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. It fades quickly, and she takes the opportunity to study him, lines all relaxed in sleep.

A book is resting on his chest; she recognizes the cover of Harry Potter. Something softens in her a little; he looks lost, and little-boy, something vulnerable in the pale skin. Carefully, she plucks the book up, and puts it on the side-table. He twitches slightly.

Then, cause she can't resist blackmail, she takes a picture with her phone. The flash sounds loud in the almost-silence.

Her feet can barely reach the floor, the chair next to his is so deep. She draws her knees up instead, fiddling with the messy ends of her braid. She sneaks another look briefly, at the uncharacteristic stillness of him.

She can't quite place exactly how long she's worked for him; it feels like she's known him forever. Something about the way he speaks and moves; like...well, she doesn't know. It's weird, though. Nice, but weird.

With a start, Rose realizes she doesn't want to stop working. She's never had a job that she loved before. Well. She thinks it's a job. She doesn't really do too much in the scheme of things.

Rose thinks of Amy, and Rory, and stares at the Doctor's thin eyelids, the veins in his wrists, the soft rise and fall of his chest. He mumbles something indistinct.

Maybe he's just lonely.

"Hello," he says a while later, rising himself up on the chair haphazardly. She jumps."Is it Monday already? I don't usually sleep twenty-four hours, although I suppose there was one time- but really, that was Romana's fault, experimenting with the sleeping serum like that- oh." He seems to run out of steam abruptly. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You're in pyjamas," he teases.

She feels blood rushing up to her cheeks, and ducks her head. "It was an emergency," she mumbles, but she's grinning too. "Oh, shut up."

"You alright?" he asks gently, standing and stretching. "What happened to bring you to my lovely house on..." he checks the watch that's always on the underside of his wrist," Sunday?"

Rose shrugs. "Caught mum and her boyfriend," she says, slightly embarrassed. "Sort of rushed out without any clothes. Didn't have anywhere else...is that okay? I'll stay out of your way, promise."

"Out of my way?" he asks. "I'd much rather you were _in_ it. Come on." He pulls her upright by her hand. "Have you seen the wardrobe yet?"

Her eyes widen. "Wardrobe," she repeats, and he outright grins. "How big a wardrobe, exactly?"

* * *

"Oh...oh _wow_," she breathes, and giggles dizzily. The wardrobe is massive. It's bigger than her flat. Bigger than two flats. And there's a rail twining up to a second floor, and the clothes...

Everything. She sees Lycra and tweed, and period dress, swimwear, 1980's style shoulder-padded jackets, Greek togas, corsets, princess ball gowns, tuxedos- things she has no idea about.

"You have to admit it now," he says smugly from behind her. "I am so impressive."

She turns, tounge touching her teeth lightly, lips curved up. "Sort of, yeah," she says. "How did you get all this stuff?"

"Oh, bought it, made it, people gave it to me, left it...that sort of thing. You can imagine how useful it is on Halloween."

She walks gingerly across the room, staring at the all the material that's jumping out and assaulting her eyes. The scarf he wore from the other day is draped around a life-like plastic dummy. She touches a sequined, tiny skirt, and then stifles a snort at a pair of fishnet stockings.

Brandishing them in her hand, she waves them at him. "And what's the story with these?" she asks.

"Oh, that," he says, coming up behind her. "Long story involving a jail cell, too many vodkas and an enraged rabbi. I looked very fetching, though."

She laughs. "I'm sure."

"Oi." He flicks her arm lightly. "I'll have you know, I'm brilliant in drag."

She blushes and bites her lip at the same time, and he smirks. "So," he continues, "go. Free reign. Impress me with your fashion."

"What, seriously?" she asks, not quite believing it.

"Seriously. Pretend it's one of those rubbish shows on telly. The stranger the better!" He waves his hands, towards the mass of costumes and fabric. "Is there a better way to spend a Sunday?"

"S'pose not," she admits.

Yeah. Okay, her life is insane, but she wouldn't trade it for the world.

* * *

The first time she steps out, decked in a 1950's poodle skirt, he ambushes her with a camera, flash burning her retina.

"Goin' my way, doll?" he pronounces in a surprisingly accurate accent.

"There any other way to go?" she asks, playing along. "You gotta take pictures?"

"Of course," he scoffs.

Next is a 1960's minidress, the paisley pattern strange against her skin. He snorts, asks if she's working through the decades. She fingers the hem, and feels oh so slightly self-conscious.

Then she chooses a pretty, Victorian dress. On a whim, she attempts a corset, and then sweeps her hair into an inexpert up-do. The skirt brushes her bare feet, and she spins, feeling it flare out, the compression of her chest uncomfortable but somehow okay. Her breaths are short and shallow; she likes the sharpness of her collarbones.

"Right," she says, almost shyly, stepping out. He's fiddling with the camera, grinning when he flicks past the photos he's taken. "What about this?"

He looks up, and blinks for a moment, eyes travelling up and down her body rapidly. His mouth parts slightly. "Um," he says, and his voice is just on the rough side. "Yes. Impressive. You look...lovely."

The compliment is unexpected, and very sincere. She looks down, fiddling with the folds. "I saw it hanging, and..."

"No, yes. I mean, yes it was hanging, and you- er. You-It's...beautiful. Not that...I, well." He laughs slightly, nervously. "Lovely," he repeats quietly, and she finds it in her to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," she says, smiling broadly. He smiles back.

The tiny little moment is spoiled by the ring of her phone. She rushes back to where her pajamas were tossed on the floor, and roots through the pockets. It's her mum, and she grimaces at the Doctor as she flips it open.

"Hi," she says. "Howard still there?"

"Don't Howard me," Jackie scolds. "Where are you? It's in the afternoon; you can't go rushing off like that-"

"I'm with the Doctor," Rose interjects. There's a tinny silence.

"Well," Jackie says. "Right. In that case, you can both come over for tea then."

She coughs hysterically, spluttering. The Doctor looks briefly concerned, stepping foward, but she wards him back. "Sorry," she hisses, "_What_?"

"You heard, didn't you? Does he eat Sherperd's pie, then?"

"He- but I thought you hated him!" Rose protests. "You wanted to-" she cuts herself off, glancing at him in profile.

"I'm not fond of him, but I reckon it's time to have a chat, if you're going to be infatuated," Jackie says, and she can hear things clattering in the background.

"I am _not_-" Rose sighs. "Look, I'll ask, but he's probably busy, alright?"

"I'll see you, then," Jackie says, like it's all confirmed.

"Yeah," Rose mutters, "see you."

She hangs up. Turns to him with an apologetic look, and a wince. He seems mildly amused, eyes bright.

"You've been invited for tea with mum," she says lowly. "You don't have to, she's-"

"I don't mind," he interrupts.

"She's cooking," Rose finishes, defeatedly. "Sheperd's pie. She's where I got my cooking skill from, by the way. It's a wonder I'm breathing."

She can hear the smile in his voice, and then he touches her hand lightly. "I don't mind," he repeats.

"Okay," she mutters, looking up at him. "But it's not my fault if you get your stomach pumped."

He laughs. She doesn't.

She gets changed, back into the bright pink flannel, and he touches the hole in her sleeve with amusement. The dress is crumpled on the floor prettily, skirts pooled on the wood. She casts a glance at it when they leave, and thinks she feels his eyes on her, too.

* * *

"So," he begins, once she's collected her jacket, and they are shutting the door behind him. "What exactly am I expecting?"

Their steps sound loud on the concrete. He tangles his fingers with hers, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and Rose rolls her eyes.

"Lucky to get out alive," she intones gravely.

"Can't be that awful if she's related to you," he reasons, and that coaxes a slightly better mood from her.

Still, the fact he's driving doesn't make her feel the slightest bit easier. That blue, beat-up car is still as jerky as ever. He taps his fingers to the beat of Bach, and she tips back her head to feel rare sunlight and wind on her skin.

Beautiful, her memory says, and he asks what she's smiling at.


	6. Chapter 6

**I am so sorry how long this took, but between a ****_very_**** messy breakup and some problems elsewhere, I was pretty much a mess. Still am, a bit, but getting better. Anyway, thanks everyone for the reviews, they've been lovely. Hope you enjoy the latest chapter.**

* * *

Rose knows from the moment the Doctor parks his car and gets out that this is going to be memorable for all the wrong reasons.

For one, she's still in her pyjamas.

And two, she isn't usually a girl to be ashamed of her background, but the Doctor looks so out-of-place in the Estate. It's all concrete and graffiti and cold, and she looks at him and sees all his insane time-travel schemes and metal and stars.

He's so unbelievable, and she's just_ not_. Ordinary, her.

He locks his car with a pat and a mumble of affection. She thinks she hears the word 'sexy' in there too. But if he finds anything ugly in the estate that surrounds him, he doesn't say a word. And she doesn't know whether he's genuinely not bothered, or is just being polite.

He smiles, and reaches for her hand. "Right," he says, and she reckons she knows him well enough to tell he's nervous. "Time to meet the mum. I never do too well with mothers. There was that time with Donna's...and Martha's." He idly raises a hand to his cheek. "Ow."

"Yeah," Rose mutters. "Well, mine's guaranteed to be worse. And she absolutely hates you-" She breaks off, embarrassed. They walk past a couple of rough looking blokes, and his hand tightens around hers unexpectedly.

"Really? Why?"

He doesn't look offended, just curious; half smile affixed to his mouth what seems like permanently. His eyes are bright.

Rose sighs, glancing at the sky for something to do. "She thinks..." A breath. "That working with you is giving me airs. And that you're, um, hiring me for the..._wrong reasons._"

"Oh." He seems to grasp her meaning then, and it's quite funny how red he goes. "Oh, oh no. Oh dear. I'll have to have a word. That...that's not.._.I'm_ not..."

"A pimp?" Rose suggests cheerfully, swinging their hands. His neck is red, and she grins. He's too easy, sometimes.

"Right," he continues briskly, coughing a bit. "Anyway-"

"What about_ your_ mum?"

He stops short, confused. "Sorry?"

"Where is she? Your mum? What's she like?" The questions come out in a rush; she hasn't realized how much she wants to know.

Until his face shutters over with darkness and something aching and he drops her fingers, mouth twisting into a thin line. "Gone," he says. "Everyone. And it was my fault."

"Sorry," she says stupidly. When she said he must have lost a lot of people, she didn't think..."I'm so sorry."

That's one of her problems; she never thinks.

They've stopped-him cold and silent- outside the steps to her flat. She tugs at the zipper of her old, worn jacket; it's suddenly unbearably awkward. "Do you still wanna-"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Dunno, I just thought..."

The ice surrounding him cracks a little. "Just because I don't have a family anymore," he says gently, "doesn't mean I can't enjoy the company of one."

They start climbing and Rose mutters, "_enjoy is an overstatement_," under her breath. She'd think he hasn't heard, but for the slight snort as they clamber up and face her mother's door. The Doctor sends her an unnaturally happy expression, but she can see the mild panic underneath.

"You don't have to-" she begins, but the door swings open without her knocking, and Jackie Tyler stands there in all her bleached-blonde, pink track-suit glory. "...do this," finishes Rose, and her mum smiles with bared teeth.

"So," she says. "You're the bloke what's got my daughter infatuated."

Somewhere, sometime, Jimmy Stones is laughing his arse off.

* * *

Tea is barely passable, and Jackie is excruciating. The Doctor smiles politely and answers her questions perfectly- "doctorate from Oxford, single, inventor"- but Rose stares at the paisley-patterned tablecloth and wishes the floor would eat her whole.

The Shepherd's pie is mushy. Her peas are squished, and her mum has so used Howard's shampoo, and that makes her uneasy for reasons that she can't explain.

And the Doctor...sitting here in his posh clothes in their mucky flat, smart and sophisticated, and dear god help him if he enters the laundry. He should be talking about politics or art...or, or..._Shakespeare,_ but instead her mum's interrogating him to scare him off of a relationship that doesn't exist, and that's only in between bouts of rambling about EastEnders.

She looks over to the man next to her, expecting to see an untouched plate and rolled eyes and a bored sigh, but he's eaten everything, and their fingers touch under the table. He sends a contended smile her way, squeezing her hand.

When Jackie's in the kitchen, he nudges her, and mouths _'she's not as bad as you said'_ and Rose thinks she's probably going to go catatonic with shock, because one time Jackie made this one boy cry.

Maybe...maybe this is going to go alright.

So, tentatively, she begins to brighten up, cupping her mug of tea in her hands, interjecting in the conversation that's turned to the Doctor's travels in Tahiti, enjoying her mum's reluctantly impressed looks.

But all that is before Mickey Smith comes crashing through the door.

* * *

He's wearing his overalls from the garage, and carrying some flowers, the petals slightly stained with grease. They're really nice ones too; must have cost a lot. Something awful pulls at her stomach and she stands up, guiltily. "Mickey," she tries, but he's staring at the Doctor, who's looking mildly confused about the whole thing.

"Right," says Mickey eventually. "Got it. Bring the new boyfriend home for tea, is it?" He's too calm, too still. "Were you gonna tell me at all?"

"No," says Rose, reaching for his sleeve, stepping away from the table. "It's not_ like_ that, I promise, he's just..."

"Just what?" Mickey snaps. "Shoulda known, you were always on about him. You fucking him?"

"Mickey!" hisses Rose, at the same time as the Doctor rises to his feet with a stern,

"Watch it."

"_You_ watch it mate," Mickey threatens, "You can't just waltz in here and steal my girlfriend-"

"For God's sake, Mickey, you don't _own_ me!" cries Rose exasperatedly. "And for your information, Mum was the one who invited him-"

"Don't drag me into this-"

"-so just bugger off, alright?"

There's a cold, cruel silence, where Mickey stares at her and she sees that corrosive armour vanish. He looks so hurt, not angry, just sad. "Guess I will then."

He drops the flowers on the table next to the door with a hard look, and then walks out with his fists clench. Rose swallows, remembering all the days when they were kids, that time after she hit Jimmy Stones and Mickey was the one to help her get home because she was so shaken up, watching TV, and she_ loves_ him, she does.

"Wait," she calls, "please." Then, before the Doctor can move towards her, she's tearing down the stairs and halfway across the concrete, grabbing his arm.

"What, Rose?" he asks tiredly.

"I'm sorry, I really am. We're not like that, I promise. He's my boss, nothing else."

"That doesn't matter, though, Rose," says Mickey, and she scowls.

"What, I can't hang around with other blokes?" she asks, anger stirring in her chest. "Is that it? I'm not allowed to have tea with my boss?"

"No," he says. "Not when he's looking at you like that."

"What?" Rose steps back, and it's dawning on her how ridiculous the situation is. "You think...? Oh my god, no. He doesn't fancy me, Mickey, and I don't fancy him, alright?"

His eyebrows set low, Mickey presses his mouth into a set line. Rose stares at him. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said to you, and him. I dunno, I just...maybe," he says slowly, "If we're fighting about something as stupid as this, it's best if..."

"If what?" she asks quietly.

"We end it."

She knew it was coming, but it still punches her in the stomach. Biting her lip, she blinks and looks away. "Is there someone else?" she asks, feeling selfish and sick to her stomach.

"No...kind of. Just, Trisha asked if..."

"Oh my god," she says, putting a hand over her mouth. "And you go around accusing me of fucking someone else behind your back-"

"I haven't done anything with her! But I reckon she's not going to go and fall in love with her rich, superior boss-"

_"I,_" shouts Rose, loud enough for the Queen to hear, _"am not in love with him!"_

"It's not just him, Rose. We just aren't getting on like we used to." He raises a hand and rubs his temples. "I think it's best if we're just friends."

Quick as lightning, he presses a kiss to her cheek, and then he's striding away, away from her and everything and he's her mate, Mickey Smith, and she's screwed everything up.

"God," she moans. A flash of anger claws its way up her throat. At Mickey, at herself, at everyone. "Fuck," she says, louder. _"Fuck!_" A shout.

There's a metal pole on the ground, and she picks it up and swings it against the green metal of the Dumpster as hard as she can, hearing the satisfying crunch, and doing it again- denting it and-

A cool hand grabs her hand, and she shrieks and whirls around, ready to bash someone's head in.

"Calm down, Boadicea," the Doctor says, slightly amused, grabbing the pole from her and tossing it away. His smile fades. "Are you alright? I heard, er, screaming."

"Mickey dumped me," she sniffles, anger passing into tears. "He _dumped_ me."

He blinks, seemingly unsure what to do, raising his hand to stroke her shoulder. "Maybe it was for the best," he suggests gently.

"The best?" she cries, "_the best?_ My boyfriend dumped me- but that's alright, it's the best thing for me-"

"Rose!" He grabs her by the arms. "I'm just saying, he came crashing in there like some sort of Neanderthal, accused me of stealing you...he didn't seem like the best boy for you-"

"You don't even_ know_ him!" she says fiercely. "He's just jealous- usually he's the best boyfriend..."

She trails off, as she realises he's not. He hasn't been, for a long time. And she's been a crap girlfriend too; ditching him, ignoring him, telling him about the Doctor non-stop. She treats him badly. Takes him for granted. And he's right.

How bad must they be, to be fighting about the Doctor?

She swallows, mouth turning down, staring at the Doctor's green eyes, kind and...something else. She sighs.

"Maybe you're right," she admits quietly. "I just...he's my best mate. I don't wanna lose him like this."

The Doctor smiles. "You don't have to. Give it a little time, then I'm sure you'll be better friends than partners. Sometimes, that's how it works."

She takes a breath. "Speaking from experience?" she asks quietly.

"Yes," he says firmly, and she hugs him impulsively, tightly. He's frozen for a moment, and then his arms come around her tentatively. A moment, and then he's hugging her back tightly. She could swear he's pressing his mouth to the crown of her head.

"Thanks," she says, to his jacket. She laughs. "How'd I end up with such a great boss?"

"Well, I have very high standards for employees," he says seriously. "Only the best."

They stay like that for a moment, before she steps back, and flashes a grin at him, still sad, but not quite as childishly hysterical. She must be growing up, she thinks, and doesn't know how she feels about that.

"You," he says, "are terrifying with a weapon."

"It's in the genes. Um, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then?" she asks, rocking on her slipper-heels. He darts a glance at his watch; the sun is fading.

"Definitely. I finished that design for a sonic blaster; there's a company person coming to look at it, so," he taps her on the nose teasingly, "best behaviour."

She taps his nose back, rising up on her toes. "I'm not the one who set the kitchen on fire."

"Once," he protests, "it was once, and an accident."

"Yeah?" Her tongue slips out her teeth. "Think I don't notice how often you replace the toaster?"

He sighs. "Alright," he says, mock-guiltily, "you caught me. Toaster terroriser."

"And the singe marks on your shirt."

"No, that was just my ironing. I don't suppose you'd-"

"Don't push your luck; I already make you lunch."

"Yes, and look how that works out."

She crosses her arms, raising her eyebrows. "Oh? How _does_ it work out?"

He swallows. "Beautifully," he says. "Perfect. I adore your cooking."

She smiles sweetly. "That's what I thought. And don't forget it, neither; else I'll put plutonium in your sandwiches."

He gives her fond look for a moment, a soft, gentle expression. "I don't doubt it," he says, almost to himself.

Then he says goodbye again, wandering off to his adored and somewhat battered car. She studies him, the bowtie and dorky suspenders and long, lanky frame. He turns back to look at her one last time, waves, and then is abruptly out of sight.

When she lets herself back into the flat, Jackie is waiting. "So," she says. "It's over, then." The table is cleared, and Rose slumps down at an empty chair.

"Yeah," she mutters, that guilty sadness overtaking her again. "It wasn't working, I suppose."

"Mickey was nice. It's a shame." Jackie takes her hand. "Are you alright, love?"

Rose sniffs. "Yeah," she says softly. Her Mum's not bad, really. "I just..."

"I know. Still, that Doctor bloke isn't as bad as I thought. He's a good man." Jackie nods, as if that settles all that.

"Oh," Rose chuckles. "The world's ending if you're paying compliments, now."

"Oi, watch it. You're not too old for a smack." Rose smiles, laying her head on the table. She traces a finger across the grains.

"I suppose we'll be seeing more of him, then," Jackie muses, rising and giving her hand a final pat.

"Why?"

There's a long, steady look. "Please, Rose. The way that man looks at you, you're not fooling anyone."

"Oh my god," she groans, "he's just a _mate_, alright?"

"Yeah, well, tell him that."

"I _will!"_ she says. "He's probably got a long-lost exotic girlfriend from Spain or something, anyway."

She can't say why that thought makes her so uncomfortable.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks so much for everyone's messages of support; I'm feeling a lot better. Enjoy the nest chapter of Sparks (a little bigger because I'm in a good mood)**

**(perhaps we could get to 100 reviews...? *grins*)**

* * *

The next day, she is (thankfully) out of pyjamas, back in jeans and a pretty shirt. She remembers what he said about a representative for a company, and goes a little easy on the mascara. Jackie's going out with Howard today, so the flat is empty as she rushes around, typically late.

She checks her phone, scanning messages from Mickey...but there's nothing. After a night of heavy, blackened sleep, she has to admit Mickey has every right- and more- to not want to talk to her.

Still, it kind of stings.

Shireen's called though, proposed a night at the club that Friday. Her thumb hovers over the delete button, her eyes sliding to the unread Hamlet on her bookshelf. She used to love partying, but now...what would the Doctor think of all those sequined, slips of fabric, dizzying lights, intoxicating, bright drinks poured down parched throats?

Not that, she reminds herself, it matters.

* * *

The weather is back to normal, too, getting colder now. The walk to the bus stop is freezing, and the bus itself isn't much better. Still, everything seems ordinary enough, so it's weird when she walks down the usually empty street, and sees a silver Volvo parked across from number 11.

_Right_, she thinks, _the company rep_- and opens the door, nearly slipping on the steps as she stumbles inside. The wind cuts out; her shivers do too. There's a coat hanging on a peg, a grey, woman's coat with shined, polished buttons. Rose hangs hers up as well, and wanders to the console room, as she's termed it.

No one, just the whirr of machines he never shuts off.

"Doctor?" she calls, and there's a muffled reply from around one of the corridors, near to the kitchen. She steps away from the massive glass rotor, and follows the sounds down into the dining room where they sometimes have lunch. The Doctor has his designs laid out across a large wooden table. A woman is sitting next to him, a black briefcase by her side, blonde hair twisted into an elegant updo.

"Hello Rose," he says to her happily, distractedly, "come on in. I was just showing Reinette the designs for my blaster."

Rose steps over to stand next to him. The woman- Reinette- offers her a business-like, quick smile and her hand. "I'm Reinette Poisson," she says, and her voice is crisp and cultured, the accent just slightly foreign. Maybe French? Rose trips her gaze over Reinette's face, the smooth pale skin and bright blue eyes. She can't be much more than thirty.

"I'm Rose," she says. "I'm the Doctor's..." she hesitates, "assistant."

Reinette nods politely, a graceful incline of her neck, and the Doctor pulls out another blueprint, talking excitedly about materials and funds. Rose hovers, uncomfortably. She knows it's silly, but Reinette is beautiful. Cultured.

Rose darts a glance at the Doctor, who seems to finally register her discomfort. He touches her hand briefly, professionally, and then, "I don't think I'll be needing you to do much, today," he says. "Why don't you go and wander around. I'm sure the pool's around here somewhere."

"Right," she says woodenly, forcing a smile. "Course. See ya...Ms Poisson." She strides off, shutting the door behind her, in the direction of who-knows-where. Dismissed, like a kid. Her fingers tense in her jean pockets.

Of course, she reminds herself, it doesn't matter. Why shouldn't her boss sit down with a beautiful woman and discuss business? What does it matter if they go back to her hotel and-

_And_, not going there.

Rose sighs. She doesn't know. She'd thought about what her mum had said, last night, about the Doctor looking at her. Maybe, she'd thought...

But obviously, she's wrong. And that's fine, because she, obviously, doesn't care.

Ducking into the closest room to her- she walks fast when she's angry-Rose sits on the soft bed, and glares at the flower-patterned wallpaper. Roses. The mirror is silver-framed, and there's a photo stuck under the corner, of a red-headed girl and the Doctor.

Amy, she recognises, and studies it carefully, getting up to run a finger over the faded, creased faces. They look happy, arm around each other, grinning at the camera. Is that New York in the background?

So she had a room here. Rose wanders out, sparing another glance at the photo. Stepping back until her spine bumps against the wall, she realises most of the corridor is made up of doors.

Turning in spite of herself- he wouldn't want her to go poking into his business- her fingers graze a brass doorknob, and twist it carefully.

This one has a medical textbook strewn on an off-white duvet cover, and a diary on a wooden dresser. She flicks through it, landing on a random page-

_I swear, if the Doctor ever makes me go undercover as a maid again, I'll wring his scrawny neck-_

She drops it, blushing. _Martha Jones_, reads the name on the front. Rise traces it. How many, she wonders, has he had? Is she just the latest in a long line? The silly wonder of exploring his past without his permission fades.

Well, she thinks miserably, she knows what they say about eavesdroppers.

She's still not gonna stop.

Another bedroom, and a man this time. Or a boy, judging by the decor. Someone has carved the name Adric into the wall, messily, probably with a knife. Rose ducks out again, stopping before she makes herself worry.

But she already is. All these rooms...she'd thought about it, but that was before the Doctor started treating her like...like...

-_you look lovely-_

Rose thinks of Reinette, and grimaces. Oh, she's been stupid. All these girls...he could have told her she was replaceable. He could have told her he was gonna get rid of her sometime or later. She'd just thought...

Got it wrong, she reminds herself, and there's an unpleasant sinking in her stomach. It's not like he'd advertised for anything more than an employee.

It's not his fault.

* * *

The rest of the day is...not fun. She goes back to check on the Doctor a couple of times, only to find him and Reinette talking and laughing together. She has to admit to herself, they make a pretty picture, her (real) blonde hair against his dark.

Jealous, taunts a voice in her head, and she shoves it aside.

Eventually, Reinette leaves, after an afternoon spent in the green house. The Doctor presses a kiss to her cheek, and makes a promise to talk more about it at 'dinner'.

"Dinner?" Rose asks the Doctor stiffly, after Reinette's car has sped quietly out of the darkening street. Is that a bitter tone? She really needs to watch herself better.

"Oh, yes, she's booked us somewhere lovely," he says airily. "Can't quite remember the name, but I'm sure it'll be delicious. I wonder if they do custard..."

She can see it now. Dinner at a swanky restaurant, that woman looking radiant in a designer dress. They eat, the Doctor in a suit, talk, laugh, drink wine and then he offers to drive her back. They go up to her room, and...

"Rose, are you alright? You look pale."

"Who's Martha Jones?" she asks bluntly, and he flinches a bit. Her queasiness fades.

"A very old, very dear friend," he says firmly, lowly. "You were in the bedrooms, weren't you?" She takes a defiant breath.

"Yeah. And?"

He sighs. "Nothing. You know anywhere is open to you. I just wish you'd stay away from those rooms."

Rose hugs herself. "What happened to her? To Martha?"

"Nothing. She worked with me, found something better. She's married now-and a doctor." He looks wistful. "Happy."

"Am..." Rose starts, and then swallows and stops. But she wants to know. "Am I..."

"Are you what?" he asks, staring down at her like he knows what she'll say.

"Gonna be like that? Just a story?"

Sadness, indescribable grief and sorrow, flashes across him. "We're all just stories in the end," he tells her, and she shivers.

"But...you never mention anyone that used to work with you. Hardly even Amy, and you were best mates. Is that what's going to happen to me?"

"No," he says. "Not...not to you."

"Yeah," she says. "Right."

The Doctor reaches out and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her neck. "I mean it," he insists.

"Okay," she says, and then shakes her head, his hand falling back to his side. "I'm, um, I think I might go home now. If...that's fine."

"I..." He swallows. "Of course. You...you go. I don't..." He looks away, fiddling with something silver in his hands. He pushes it back into his pocket when she tries to see what it is. "Goodnight," he adds quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah...you too."

She smiles, too quick for it to be proper, and then makes to open the door. His hand on her wrist stops her, and he looks so...so determined. So bittersweet. She opens her mouth, but he beats her to it.

"I just wanted to say, you- you're extraordinary." His whole frame is curled over, eyes bright and burning and intense, pulse thrumming in his throat. He feels like gravity; like she's falling.

"I-" she begins, but he's stepped away, slightly embarrassed, studying the wall next to her intently. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well," he says lowly, and she leaves so quietly it's like she was never there at all.

* * *

Reinette's there for the whole week. Rose tries to be nice; it's not like the woman is being openly hostile. But her and the Doctor talk about prototypes and engineering and Rose is lost. Looking on. They make plans and laugh and talk about Paris and Barcelona. The furthest she's been is Brighton.

In lieu of spending her time with the Doctor, she wanders the house instead. It's fun, despite her foul mood. She spends a day watching old movies, giggling at Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. Cuddled on a squishy chair with a bowl of popcorn, she sings her way through My Fair Lady, and falls asleep to Casablanca.

When she wakes up, a blanket is carefully tucked up under her chin, and the TV is turned off.

Wednesday she challenges herself to read through as much of Act I as she can, and determinedly starts Hamlet, only to be distracted by a romance book of questionable quality tossed on the floor. The cover has a man with a wonderfully chiseled chest, clutching a well-endowed, swooning woman to him. Her dress is nearly shreds, her chest showing more than when Jackie's on the prowl.

Rose doesn't know quite why the Doctor ever tried to dispose of the lusty adventures of Lucas the roguish pirate and Melissa the innocent princess- not until she runs into the same euphemism nine times in three chapters. And it's not even a good one.

After that, she just chooses books at random, holding some advanced quantum physics textbook over her head, trying to see how many words she understands (200 in half a chapter, not including and-or-the)

One thing she does find interesting is a huge encyclopedia on stars and galaxies, complete with glossy pictures and bright bursts of color. She mouths the names of constellations like they're precious, touching the luminous spirals, running her fingernail over the Eagle Nebula like she could fall into it.

When she leaves that day, her knees have the carpet imprinted on them, and her face is flushed from lying so close to the fire. The Doctor, having waved off Reinette another not-so-hasty peck, takes a look at the book held under her arm.

"Erm, can I borrow this?" she asks, and he smiles.

"Of course. I didn't know you liked stars," he says, almost sounding surprised. A pleased sort of surprise.

"I don't really know too much about them," Rose explains, biting her lip. "But I always liked space, ever since I was a kid."

"Well," he says, "once you've finished that one, there's some excellent documentaries I have...somewhere...and I've got a great telescope. We could, er, try it out sometime. If you want." He adds the last sentence as an afterthought.

She's about to grin and nod, but there's a lingering smell of perfume in the air. So instead she says goodbye and leaves quickly because it's raining, and no way is she getting her stars wet.

* * *

Thursday she spends in a borrowed one-piece, sinking under the warm pool water, closing her eyes, feeling bubbles leak out of her mouth. When she surfaces, the Doctor is at the pool edge, looking at her. He holds out a fluffy towel wordlessly, places a plate of biscuits on the tile, and leaves with a strange bitter-sweet smile.

Later, he says nothing at her damp hair and the water tracked on his floor, only brushes her hand as he passes her, leaving to go say goodbye to Reinette.

Friday the Doctor is showing Reinette his console, his other designs, his machinery. So, Rose, with an impatient, irritated hello, launches herself into the depths of the wardrobe.

That dress he said was beautiful is hanging up on the front of a rail. But she ignores it, practically digging through racks of clothes. She's not really looking for anything; just a distraction from the image of the Doctor standing so close to Reinette-Real-Blonde-Poisson.

First, there's a massive contraption that makes her looks like a puffy pink marshmallow, and that's discarded with a laugh and a cringe. She stands in mismatched underwear- the pale blue bottoms with the wrong day displayed across her bum- and searches.

Dungarees, a sixtie's block-coloured dress, something stretchy and black that looks distinctly like a cat-suit...is that a pair of breeches? She pictures the Doctor strutting around in those and stifles her snort, even though the room is empty. Her bare feet trip across the wooden floor, fingers reaching and brushing past fabric, rough and soft and something undefinable- slinging skirts around her hips, pulling faces at herself in the full-length mirror, struggling with full-blown contraptions that would have been out-dated five centuries ago.

(there's even a couple of drawers full of lacy, barely there knickers, and the skimpy bras to match, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted)

She's wearing a straw hat, and a large leather jacket, when she nearly kicks a sparkly club dress- silver, loose, scandalously short- and she smiles.

If the Doctor's gonna flirt with pretty, PR women, can't she have some fun with her mates out dancing? It's not like it's a crime. And really, what's he going to use the dress for, anyway?

She pulls it over her shoulders, letting the hem fall against the tops of her thighs. It really is short. Her legs aren't too long, but they're alright, she guesses. They'd look better with heels.

And the dress dips in the back, baring her shoulder blades a bit. The material sparks against her skin, her hair catching on the sequins. It's not like she hasn't worn worse, after all (naughty school girl for Halloween comes back with a vengeance) and Shireen's bound to have her chest practically exposed, anyway.

"Rose?"

She turns so suddenly she crashes into a rack of men's shirts, and they come tumbling down, covering her feet. The Doctor is standing in the doorway, his face almost comical. In his hand is a cup of tea, the liquid dripping down the sides.

"I," she stammers, trying to come up with an explanation. "I'm going dancing tonight, and I thought..."

"You're going dancing wearing _that_?" he asks. She goes red.

"What's wrong with it?" she asks defensively.

"I think that's a shirt," he says dubiously, frowning. There's a slight blush on his cheeks, and his gaze darts down to her thighs and back up again. "A shirt that's meant to be worn over a another one."

She tugs at the edges. "It's a dress," she confirms. "And I don't see what's wrong with it."

"You look like you're...a sort of..bait."

"What?"

"Bait," he repeats. "For men. Some of which I would expect have very nefarious intentions regarding your clothing."

She cocks her head. "What, they want it off?" She's still confused.

He coughs. "I would imagine so, yes."

She raises an eyebrow, jutting out her hip slightly. "Good," she says boldly, hoping he doesn't see how mortified she is.

He seems to suffer an asthma attack, and she's just about to ask if he's choking when he straightens- completely red and completely flustered. "I...thought you were-"

"What?" she asks. He's treading on thin ice.

"Better than that," he finishes, looking both sheepish and disgusted.

Ice that's cracking.

"Better than that? What's so bad if I wanna go dancing with my mates- and yeah, maybe I want to take a bloke home and let him shag me-"

"Rose-" he interrupts, jaw clenched. On some level she knows Reinette- and all those bedrooms- are making her ridiculous and difficult. But still, it doesn't matter that she hasn't had a one-nighter yet; it's the principle, now.

"I," she says firmly, "can do whatever makes me feel good. And whether that's clubbing, or snogging or even sex- it's my body an' my choice an' you're _not_ my father."

"I'm sure your father would certainly not want you out doing that-"

Ice that just broke.

Rose goes still, very much so. She can't believe him. She told him about how sad she feels about her dad; how can he just go using that against her?

By the looks of his face- guilty, apologetic- he knows he's gone too far. But she glares at him anyway. "I'm going to get changed," she tells him, "and then I'm gonna go home. You enjoy your dinner with Reinette."

He exits quietly, without a fight, and she tugs her jeans and shirt back on, and clenches the dress tightly in her hands. She has to wear it now, after all the trouble it's caused. Dully, she curses her stupid big mouth, and tries to ignore that fact, that, when she exits the house, he's not even there to say goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks so much for the reviews guys! Wow, 106. For seven chapters that's a ****_lot_****. So as a little bit of a thank you, here's an extra long chapter. *tugs at collar* You may not like exactly what happens, but trust me; I've got a plan**

**Enjoy the chapter...I hope.**

* * *

Shireen comes over that night (after an afternoon of seething and ego-mending) and compliments her on the dress first thing, as Rose studies the shimmer in the mirror. It's with a sense of vindictive pride that she grins and tells Shireen that she got it on special.

Never mind the fact that he's gone and made her feel..._something._ Something squirmy, something that just brushes ashamed.

It's a new club that Shireen's only gone to a couple of times, one with fancy lights and loads of people their age, drunk and pretty. The Bad Wolf, or something. The cabbie gives them _that_ look. She just wants to get away, just wants to forget and maybe get a little bit smashed and lost in music and herself.

Shireen sits beside her, skirt way too short, looking simultaneously cheap and fabulous. That's her way though. Rose has known her for ages, since she was a little kid. Long enough for Shireen to know something's up with Rose, and definitely long enough for her to not ask for details. They slide around on the cracked leather, excited and young and glittering with make-up and self-confidence.

_you look like…bait_

The bouncer asks for ID, and they slip into a large, slick building, glassy tinted windows, and a dull throbbing beneath her shoes. Rose touches the walls as they walk in, and feels the reverberations wash over her. She's missed this; a mate, music, the whole night ahead of her.

Time to have fun.

* * *

Rose dances, anonymous on the packed, sweaty floor, ankles dangerously close to twisting in her metallic, tall shoes. Notes bubble up around her, the beat pulsing through her bones, thudding, shaking. She can see Shireen being chat up through the corner of her eye and the haze of a light drunkenness. Strobe lights are imprinted onto her retina, so she shuts her eyes instead. Dances in the dark.

There's a bloke that joins her, hands wandering down her hips, pressing himself to her. She sort of enjoys it, sort of doesn't, but sways on nonetheless, liking the feel of being wanted.

He kisses her open-mouthed, tastes of alcohol and chips, tangles his large fingers in her hair. She kisses back briefly, but when he whispers something slurred and obscene and to do with an alley wall, Rose remembers the Doctor's expression.

Remembers Reinette.

"I'm not bait," Rose tells the bloke sternly, disentangling herself from his grabby fingers.

"_Tease_," he spits, stumbling away and attaching himself to a petite brunette, employing the exact same routine. Rose shrugs it off, sitting herself at the bar, smiling at the sight of Shireen practically sticking her tongue down that guy's throat. He's cute, she'll give her that.

She knows that spark in her friend's eyes; Shireen is waking up tomorrow in a very unfamiliar bed.

Rose is so busy looking around, thinking about how much she's got for a fare if Shireen is ditching her, watching the dancers, that she doesn't have the presence of mind to watch her own drink. Not as a man brushes up against her, and certainly not as he crushes a small pill into it, so quickly his hands nearly blur.

She lifts the cup to her mouth and runs the unnaturally sugar-sweet liquid over her teeth, coughing as it goes down the wrong way. Her fingers drum on the table.

Later, she'll think how goddamned lucky she is that she had a friend to stop her from getting dragged outside and being taken advantage of, but after a couple of sips, the only thing that's going through her mind is how hazy everything is.

How pretty and shiny and blurred it is, and how when she squints, it kind of resembles a picture from that book about galaxies. She giggles, tilts forwards, and surrenders to the constellations burning in her head.

* * *

Shireen is a good person, she likes to think. Alright, yeah, she's nicked some stuff once or twice. Fudged a speeding fine. But still. She's loyal. And so when she sees Rose, half slumped over, an out-of-it, sleepy grin gracing her face, she gets up from Aaron's (Adam?) lap immediately.

"Fucking idiot," she mutters, hauling Rose up by the arms; her self defense classes have done her good. "Why the bloody hell won't you watch what you're bloody _drinkin'_?" Sparing a glance to see if Aaron is going to help her- no, the bastard- she guides Rose out of the door and into the night, hoping whoever put the drug into Rose's drink doesn't follow them.

She gets a couple whistles from a group of blokes nearby-the skirt she's wearing is more of a bandage-but ignores them, stepping into a dimly lit alley nearby. Rose groans and nearly slips to the ground. God it's freezing. She checks her bag for money; not nearly enough to get back. Reaching into Rose's bag, she fumbles for Rose's phone, flipping it open while still keeping her friend semi-upright.

"Wha's happening?" Rose slurs. "Why're there two of you?"

Shireen's thumb scrolls down the list of contacts- Jackie doesn't have a car, Mickey...they broke up, right? Rose would have her head if Shireen called her ex to come lug her high, drunk arse out of danger.

She taps 'Doctor' on the screen with a sparkly pink nail. Rose talks about him all the time- never mind the fact Shireen broke up with George; the Doctor took her out for chips. Honest, that girl is so done for. He's rich, isn't he? Got to have a car.

"Hello?" says a voice on the other end when she dials the number. "Rose? Look, I'm sorry about-"

"Yeah, mate, it's not Rose here," Shireen says bluntly. "It's Shireen."

"Oh," he says. "The dancing one."

Rose laughs-giggles, more like- and slumps against the stone wall, away from her grasp. Shireen tugs down Rose's hem in a mostly useless attempt to stop her flashing. "Yeah, whatever. Anyway, someone put something in her drink and-"

"Is she alright?" he demands, suddenly business. Shireen hears footsteps on the other end, and rolls her eyes. Knight in shining armour type? Should've known.

"Yeah. I mean, higher than a kite-"

"Am not, Reenie," coos Rose, using a nickname they'd abandoned by her eighth birthday. "I...I am fine. Just...fine."

"Off your head, Rosie. But d'you mind picking her up? She's in a right state." Shireen rattles off the address quickly, starting to worry at how dark it is, how vulnerable they are.

"I'll be there," he says sternly, and hangs up without another word. Sounds lovely.

Sitting next to Rose, Shireen mutters, "he's a flash one you got there," and prop's Rose's head up. Their hair- blonde and dark- mix together. "Right hero, that one."

"You didn't call 'im..." Rose moans, trying to hit her and missing by about nine inches. "He's gonna...you didn't have ta...we were havin' _fun_."

One time, Shireen got drugged like this, nearly got raped, and Rose was the one who helped her out of that. Friends like her don't just come around, and when they do, you hold the hair off their faces when they puke, even if they get some on your best shoes.

Alright, so that's not the best euphemism. So sue her; she dropped out of school when Rose did. Although, she reflects, as Rose gags suddenly, it's a pretty accurate one right now.

Gross.

The things she does for Rose Tyler she could write a fucking book on.

* * *

Holding a miserable, mentally-absent, sweat slicked Rose, Shireen first meets the Doctor. He's hurtled into the alley, made her reach for the pepper-spray, and now is staring helplessly at Rose.

Is that a bow-tie?

"Mmmf," Rose says, raising her head and squinting bleary, unfocused eyes.

The Doctor- this man with the flash clothes and floppy hair- he snatches Rose right out of Shireen's grasp, hoisting her up like a panicked, shining knight with absolutely no idea what to do. "What happened?" he demands.

"Well," Shireen begins, getting to her feet. "She was right stupid. Usually she's smarter than to take her eyes off her drink, but this time..." she shrugs. "Lucky she had her phone."

He looks horrified, angry. "But...she could have been..."

A flicker of concern invades her attitude. Shireen tries a smile, glancing at the curtain of blonde hair that's hanging over the Doctor's arm. "Yeah. As I said. Lucky."

The Doctor spins, almost jogging towards the street- _bow legged, Rosie?_-and Shireen follows. His car is battered and blue and not posh enough to make her forget the chin. He places Rose gently on the backseat, does up her seatbelt carefully, and touches her cheek, fingers brushing the edges of her face before something shuts off in his eyes and he sort of...goes blank.

If she wasn't so cold and a little drunk and also a wee bit irritated, she might have found it interesting. Maybe.

"D'you mind giving me a lift?" Shireen asks him, and after a moment's hesitation, the passenger door swings open and she climbs in.

* * *

"So, what, you're really loaded?" she asks, fiddling with his music stash as the Doctor proceeds to try and kill them all with liberal use of the brakes. First thing she does, checking out the music with a new guy. Not that this one's hers (she wouldn't really want him, anyway)

Bach. Glenn Miller. Ian Dury and the Blockheads...is that Elvis?

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks. Rose moans something indecipherable in the backseat, and the Doctor steps on it and Shireen starts mentally writing her eulogy. At least Mickey knew how to _drive_.

"You're not exactly her type," she elaborates, grabbing at the seatbelt like a drowning woman. "She usually goes for pretty boys, and no offence mate, but you could do serious damage with that chin."

The Doctor frowns, and glances at the mirror. "I'm her boss," he says. "I think it hardly matters whether I'm handsome to her or not."

She laughs, then shrieks as he practically burns rubber on a turn. "Oh my god, this is like Opal and Keith all over again," she says, before remembering the Doctor doesn't know Keith or Opal. "Do you seriously think she doesn't fancy you?"

"Yes. Of course she doesn't," he says tightly. He looks at Rose quickly. Not quick enough.

Shireen flicks on Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick and he winces. "And," she continues, crossing her legs, "you obviously have a thing for her." She taps her fingers on the windowsill, watches the dodgy parts of the city wander by.

He slams on the brakes again, barely making the light. Shireen probably would have run it. "And what makes _you_ the expert?" he asks, gesturing at her a little angrily. Forcefully ejecting the Ian Dury CD, he slides in Glenn Miller instead.

She rolls her eyes, fingering the ends of her dyed black hair. "I call you at like, what, one in the morning, an' you come running, carry her to your car and you think I don't think you're sweet on her? I'm not thick like you are, mate. I may not be an inventor or whatever, but I sure ain't _blind._"

"I don't," he insists. "Trust me, she's made it..." he trails off, and doesn't pick up again.

The Doctor screeches into the Powell Estate without a word more, thankfully managing to stop without crashing into a wall. Shireen pats as much of Rose as she can reach from the front, and offers an insincere smile. "This is us," she says. "Cheers."

"Do you need help carrying her up?" he asks, and as much as she hates to admit it, there's not much she can say to refuse that. Rose isn't overweight, but Shireen is not the textbook definition of weightlifter. At all.

She watches him as he lifts her up and out of the car, shivering slightly in the cool night air. Makes sure his hands don't wander around. Force of habit, though; he doesn't strike her as a scumbag. Although. Jimmy...

She's remembering the brilliant crack his nose made when Rose punched him as they climb the stairs to Rose's flat, and the Doctor is silent, looking down at the girl cradled against him with an indecipherable, almost bitter expression. She always goes for the chivalrous ones, Rose does.

They stop by her door, the Doctor without having to ask. Shireen unlocks it with the key Rose gave her ages ago, and motions him soundlessly across the living room and towards Rose's bedroom. She's fairly sure Jackie's at Howard's, but you can never be too careful.

The Doctor glances befuddledly at the pink walls and bedspread, and after a moment, places Rose down cautiously, drawing up a fluffy blanket to her shoulders. His hands hover like he wants to push back her hair, but Shireen clears her throat. Right.

Time to get something straight.

"What do you want with her?" she asks him artlessly, crossing her arms. The Doctor looks startled. "Like, what, is it just a sex thing, or do you think a relation-"

"_No!_" he protests in a whisper-yell. "She's my...friend." He swallows. "_Why_ must people..." A sigh. "She's my friend," he repeats more strongly. "I am not using her."

Shireen considers this, and the resolute stance of his body. And then leans over and pokes him hard in the chest. "I'm going to be honest; I don't know you from a hole in the wall. Frankly, unless you have like five swimming pools-"

"-actually-"

"I don't really get why Rose likes you. But she does. And me and her, we've taken care of each other our whole lives. And Rose is tough, cause growing up on an estate is gonna do that to you. We're all tough."

The Doctor opens her mouth, but Shireen glares at him and he shuts up. Wise move.

"But see, sometimes I think she really does need taking care of. She's romantic. A little bit stupid. Maybe a little bit vulnerable- I dunno.." Shireen leans in close. "But she'd run right off with a tall handsome man if you'd let her, if he was mysterious and had a nice bum. And I think that's sort of beautiful, that she still dreams about true love and selflessness and shit. I love how she finds good in everyone."

She takes a deep breath and looks at the blonde, near-comatose girl on the bed. "But I know she's gonna get her heart broken, cause that's what happens if you go around believing that everyone's gonna sweep you off your feet. And so help me _god_ if you're the one that does it, I will disembowel you with a kitchen knife and use your guts as Christmas tree decorations."

The Doctor, instead of looking intimidated and scuttling off, simply looks at her, long and flatly. "You don't need to worry," he says eventually. "She's made it clear she's not...she doesn't see me that way. And quite frankly, I don't think I blame her."

"Doctor-"

"Goodnight Shireen." He spares a last, hard glance at Rose, and then lopes off, shutting the front door with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.

* * *

She wakes up and promptly decides her head is going to explode. Painkillers and as much silence as she can manage later, Shireen is talking on the phone, explaining just what happened last night.

"...and then I called a mate and-"

"Who?" she interrupts, and winces.

Shireen hesitates. "Just a friend," she says, sounding thin and evading. Rose thinks back to yesterday's haze and pieces together the feel of warm solid arms around her, and a familiar voice saying something soft...

"You didn't," she hisses. "Oh, god, was I drooling? Shit- was I saying anything? Shireen how could you? We just had a _massive_ argument-"

"I didn't know-"

Rose groans. "My boss," she says mournfully. "The Doctor saw me drugged."

"He's got a thing for you-"

"Not you too-"

"But don't worry, I told him what he needed to know."

Rose goes pale. "What did you tell him?" she asks quietly, calmly. Shireen coughs.

"Just, you know, sort of made sure he knew what was gonna happen if he pulled a Jimmy."

"He's not like that," she says automatically, and frowns. "And he doesn't fancy me. Practically called me a slag when he saw me in that dress on Friday."

"Well..."

"Oh, shut up." Rose swallows, and shuts her eyes. "And thanks, Shireen."

"Any time."

The phone line goes dead, and Rose is left to consider the fact that a) she's stupid, and b) the Doctor drove all the way to get her and drop her home. After they had a go at each other.

Also, she's a bit miffed that she was mostly unconscious when he was carrying her. Er.

Not that she cares.

* * *

The weekend is boring. Mickey hadn't called-and won't-Jackie has learnt from last week's mistake, and is at Howard's daughter-free apartment. She's not even gonna consider speaking to the Doctor, after he hoisted her unconscious, probably-drooling arse up to the flat. He may have been a little right, on Friday, but that doesn't mean he gets off bringing up her dad scot-free.

And also, she's really, really embarrassed.

So she spends it with her book, buried in space and the universe, wishing uselessly she could see all those beautiful things up close.

* * *

On Monday, she waits, ready to apologize and be apologized to. And thank him, as well.

She keeps waiting the whole goddamned day, but her key won't open the door and she's stuck on the steps, freezing, hoodie slipped over her face. She texts him, more than once, but there's no answer.

She is so going to kill him. Knight in shining armour or not.

On Tuesday, she does it again. Waiting. But this time, she's getting worried. What if he's in trouble? Of hurt, or kidnapped or something? The air is cold, and she calls three times, but his voicemail is just as awkward and dead-end as before.

Maybe, she thinks with a shock of horror so fierce it scares her, he's dead. Maybe he's dead, and the last thing she ever did (consciously) with him was fight.

On Wednesday, she goes to the park, and sits on the bench with a packet of chips in her hand, watching the kids play on the swings and slide, burning her tongue and not caring. The salt stings the cuts on her lips she's gotten from worrying at it with her teeth.

She thinks she might be panicking, but it's hard to tell.

On Thursday, Jackie says it's alright if he's fired her, and the row they have is so enormous it nearly collapses the foundation of the flat. Rose storms out and visits Shireen, who acknowledges he's a bastard and she was right in her initial impression and also that he's gonna learn that she doesn't back down from her threats.

None of this helps.

On Friday, Rose tears down the phone book, and then the Internet, looking for an Amy Pond from Leadworth. She finds a number, and stares at it for fifteen minutes before plonking the phone down and trying to improve her cooking skills.

The chicken burns.

On Saturday, she sleeps until ten, briefly considers calling Mickey, and then watches rubbish telly until Jackie yells at her to go outside. Rose gets dressed, catches the bus, and sits by the Thames for as long as she can manage before getting frostbite.

When she closes her eyes, she sees green ones.

On Sunday, Rose brings a crowbar and a lock pick. The bus driver gives her a terrified look, and she brandishes the crowbar with a sense of morbid glee. He doesn't ask for a fare.

As it turns out, neither of them are necessary, because her key turns the lock, and after exactly five and a half days, a man is waiting for her in the console room.

Second thought, she might use that crowbar after all. Still, it'd be a pity to get all that pretty glass messy.


End file.
